


Never Quite Thought We Could Lose It All

by LaughingStones



Series: PRT verse [1]
Category: Motorcity
Genre: Amnesia, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chuck is a good bro, Explicit Consent, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kane Co techies have their own culture, Kane is a cruel dickhead, Lots of Sex, M/M, Mike is only reckless with himself, Non-consensual Medical Procedures, Panic Attacks, Reunions, Sexual Slavery, induced amnesia, sort of, which is to say I had way too much fun worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-10-31 12:31:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10899417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingStones/pseuds/LaughingStones
Summary: Chuck is a perfectly ordinary techie in the Programming and Data Department. Sure, he's got a massive hole in his memory, but that's not unusual for a Kane Co tech.What's unusual is Mike Chilton showing up one Friday night, assigned to Chuck for the evening.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Roachpatrol for vast chunks of the worldbuilding, to Roach and Curlicuecal for betaing, and to them and Splickedylit for encouragement!
> 
> _An empire's fall in just one day_  
>  _You close your eyes and the glory fades_
> 
> _How come I've never seen your face 'round here?_  
>  _I know every single face 'round here_  
>  _A man on a mission, changing the vision_  
>  _I was never welcome here_

Chuck only meant to distract himself until the party squad arrived, but by the time he hears women's voices circulating outside his cubicle he's deep in the code of the latest project. He's vaguely aware of the eager voices of his coworkers greeting the women, and the quiet noises (okay, and some not so quiet) of sex starting up in other cubicles, but mostly he's focused. If he's annoyed somewhere at the back of his mind that there seems to be no professionally smiling woman assigned to him (which is weird, actually; it's partly due to him that the department surpassed their weekly productivity quota in the first place and they usually _all_ get the reward) he's sufficiently engrossed to ignore it.

Not distracted enough to not be pleased when someone finally knocks on the outside of his cubicle, though. Chuck turns with a welcoming smile that's only slightly sheepish, then stops dead, eyes widening as he unconsciously pushes back into his chair until it scoots backwards.

The fully armored, masked Elite standing in his doorway takes a hand off his gun to jerk a thumb at someone standing next to him behind the wall.

“Special-ordered physical relief technician here,” he says, and tosses something small and flat at Chuck, who flails and misses it.

The Elite snorts. “That's the key to his cuffs. Don't use it unless you're sure you can handle him. There's a reason he's got an armed escort.” He tilts his head at the exit. “Call the guard station if he gets out of hand.”

“Special-ordered-- _out of hand?_ ” Chuck says weakly, and then quickly as the Elite turns away, “Wait, there's some kind of mistake, I didn't ask for--”

He's already out of sight, heavy boots striding away, and a minute later Chuck hears the door close behind him. The asshole didn't even pause to listen, and oh _hell_ , what's Chuck been left with? Some kind of half-trained, antisocial weirdo from the gladiatorial branch of the PRTs? _Why?_ Chuck wants to get laid, not have a ‘sparring partner’, otherwise known as a whipping boy; who would even send a techie an executive toy like that?

The PRT steps into view, staring after the Elite with narrowed eyes, and Chuck’s mouth goes dry.

Shit, the guy is _gorgeous_. Broad shoulders, flat hard stomach and strong arms, muscles under olive-brown skin shown off by the tiny white and blue vest he's wearing, which covers up part of his pecs and that's about it. The matching booty shorts are a good look for him. He's barefoot, which Chuck is pretty sure isn't PRT standard, but Chuck’s not about to complain because it's bizarrely sexy.

He's so good-looking, maybe he's a normal PRT after all? Chuck doesn't know who would've ordered him a guy when he usually sticks to women; you have to have a pretty good record to be allowed a special order, and if you like women at all men aren't really worth the risk of censure.

But no, the guy's not wearing makeup, there's a grim expression on his face that's unnerving even in profile, and the old and new bruises mottling his skin along with various scars are downright disturbing. His wrists are fastened behind him with slender metal cuffs like bracelets, which stick together as if magnetized. Definitely the gladiatorial branch, and if he's difficult enough that he has to be restrained, he's more likely to kick Chuck’s face in than kiss him. Really great.

Abruptly it occurs to him why this probably happened and he groans aloud. Tilting his face up to the ceiling, he yells to the office at large, “I don't know which of you is responsible for this, but you're a _dick!_ Just because I've got a few scars and some weird reflexes doesn't mean I need to fight somebody to de-stress! Not fucking funny!”

“Okay, dude,” comes Rich’s breathless voice from two cubicles down, “not arguing, and I dunno who called in a punching bag for you, I just wanna say--flipping a guy into a wall when you get startled does _not_ count as just a ‘weird reflex’, okay?”

“Not convincing me _you_ didn't make that call, asshole,” Chuck calls back, and Rich snorts and presumably turns his attention back to his nice relaxing ‘sensual massage’. Lucky bastard.

Heaving a resentful sigh, Chuck turns back to his own personal fighting toy for the night to find the guy staring at him. To his surprise, there's no hostility or calculation or even wariness on his face, just some kind of wide-eyed, waiting tension Chuck can't quite decipher.

“Um. Hi,” Chuck says weakly, lifting one hand in a dumb little wave.

The guy’s face falls for no reason Chuck can guess at.

“Hey, Chuck,” he says quietly, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a sad excuse for a smile.

Smiling, he looks vaguely familiar, but Chuck can't quite place it. “Right, you got my name with your assignment,” Chuck says, “so, can I get--” He cuts himself off because the guy is shaking his head.

“I know your name,” he says. “You look different with short hair. But I've known you--we've known each other since we were little kids. I'm your best friend. Kane wiped your memory, man. I guess you've lost--”

And the rest of whatever dumbass thing he was saying is drowned out by the pounding of Chuck’s heart in his ears as a streak of white agony goes through his head. When he's finally aware of anything beyond the pain, he finds himself hunched over in his chair clutching his throbbing skull and breathing in shuddering gasps.

“--god, are you all right?” the unforgivable moron is saying, having the gall to sound genuinely distressed.

“The _fuck_ is wrong with you?” Chuck gasps, outrage giving him the strength to lift his head. He has to look farther up than expected because the guy’s a lot closer than he was, hovering uselessly with his hands still cuffed.

Worried dark eyes widen under shaggy brown hair. “Uh. Dude. What?”

“You do _not_ walk in here and start talking about that shit!” Chuck hisses. “The hell did you think was going to happen, you would open your big mouth and painlessly enlighten me?” Angrily flailing his hands doesn't help his head at all.

The guy is not that bright. Looking completely bewildered, he says, “I--no, I just wanted--wait.” His mouth drops open. “You _knew?_ ”

The throbbing is starting to back off, thank fuck. Now if Chuck can just educate this idiot without thinking about anything that would trigger another attack, he'll be home free. Ha ha, no problem! Just describe Deluxe without ever using the word ‘white’.

He tilts his head sarcastically to one side. “That I had a really fucking big time gap? Like, from my point of view I was fifteen like, three weeks ago?” He’s rightfully proud of himself for not thinking about what he's saying. “Why _no_ , man, I totally failed to notice. Never having had a blank spot before, of course!”

“ _Fifteen?_ God.” The dumbfounded expression is kind of cute until it takes on a disturbed tinge. “This--this has happened to you before?”

He's clueless, but also dismayed enough that it's hard to stay mad. Chuck sighs, brushing fingers over the short fuzz of his hair, gently rubbing his scalp to chase the lingering ache away. “Yeah, dude. I'm a tech. We're kind of notorious for finding out more than we should.”

“Why didn't I know about it? I mean, why didn't you tell me--oh. I guess you can't really answer that.”

“Got it in one,” Chuck says, glancing up at him. _Best friend_ whispers through his mind, and _Kane wiped_ \--he cuts off the thought with long practice at the warning throb, and starts mentally reciting the first thirty digits of pi to settle it down. His eyes stay on the guy’s face, though, and with his conscious mind safely distracted, a distant memory slides into view.

“Holy shit,” Chuck says blankly. “ _Mike?_ ”

The guy’s lips part and his eyes widen as his whole face breaks into this incredible expression of wonder, astonishment, _joy_. It seems a little over the top, since as last Chuck remembers they mostly fell out of touch, but maybe they got close again.

“Yeah,” Mike breathes. “Chuckles, you remember me?”

 _Chuckles_ , oh god, he remembers that name! Chuck claps a hand over his mouth to catch the giggle coming out. “Mikey, oh my god! Of course, dude, we grew up together! _Fuck_ you got hot!” Oh hell, he just said that out loud.

Mike goes still, the brightness fading out of his face. He bites his lip, tries a smile that looks painful. “Oh. I, uh, I thought you meant--” he stops himself, says carefully, “--something more recent.”

Huh. They _must_ have gotten close again for Chuck forgetting it to put that look on his face. Chuck nibbles his own lip guiltily and offers an apologetic smile. “Three years, bro,” he says gently. “I've got a few weeks of ‘recent’ and that's it, sorry.”

Mike nods, tight-lipped. He stands there a moment, struggling with himself, and finally says, quiet and fierce, “I _hate_ Kane. I can't believe he--three _years!_ How can he _do_ that to people? He's such a _jerk!_ ”

Chuck can't quite control the incredulous smile at ‘jerk’ instead of, say, ‘sadistic controlling bastard’, but it drops off his face a second later as that hauls up another laggard memory. “Holy shhhhh--mm, oh my god,” he says, finally noticing the way Mike flinches minutely at the approaching curse, the way he has been every time Chuck swears, because _hell_ \--“you were a fff--a cadet!”

Cadets are supposed to be clean-mouthed and clean-minded: they don't swear, ever. They get so heavily conditioned it's unpleasant for them to even hear the words, which has them coming down all the harder on anyone who uses ‘disruptive and disorderly speech’ around them. Mike was never the type to threaten anyone, or even report them, but the pained, startled look on his face every time thirteen-year-old Chuck swore around him was enough to train Chuck out of it fast. (When Chuck was around him. When he was with the other techs he made up for the lack.)

Mike looks away, face hard. “That was a long time ago.”

Well, shit. Being in the Cadets was _everything_ to the Mike Chuck remembers. Of course, he also pretty much worshipped Kane, so obviously things have changed in the intervening years.

Chuck stares at the skimpy PRT outfit and shakes his head in dismay. Changed _drastically_. He finally glances around him on the floor, looking for the key to those cuffs, finds the chip a little behind his chair to one side and picks it up.

“Let me get those off you,” he says, and Mike turns his back without hesitation, offering his locked-together wrists.

Chuck turns the key-chip the right way and slides it into the appropriate slot in one cuff. The cuffs come apart and Mike's (ridiculously sexy) muscular arms drop to his sides as he hisses softly, working his shoulders carefully.

Chuck raises his brows at the cuffs, which show no sign of coming off. They look completely innocuous now, like slightly heavy jewelry, which, along with the bands of bruising under them, suggests that they're semi-permanent accessories. That's not typical, even for the gladiatorial PRTs.

“God, bro,” he sighs, “who the fff-mm, _heck_ did you piss off to get demoted from the best and brightest to a punch-toy for angry execs?”

“Kane,” Mike said shortly, rubbing at a shoulder with one hand.

Chuck’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Holy--uhhh, snicker-snack,” he says, and Mike's grim look gives way to a startled huff of laughter. “That would about do it, yeah. Come here, dude, let me do that.”

He gets up, intending to offer Mike his chair, and is taken by surprise when Mike steps up and wraps his arms hard around Chuck, head ducked against his shoulder.

“‘m sorry,” Mike says in a low voice. “This must be weird, but I just--”

“No,” Chuck says, holding him in return. “It's okay.” It is a little weird, but the weirdest part is how comfortable it is and the quiet warmth that settles in his chest. Old memories drift up of hugs and casual arms dropped across his shoulders, a time when they touched easily and constantly. Before Mike joined the junior cadets, before Chuck became a programming intern at thirteen, before they started growing apart. It's strange to find himself hungry for something he didn't know he was missing.

“I missed you so much,” Mike whispers.

He knows Mike's talking about something recent, not the old history that's all Chuck can remember, but it still kind of stings. “Do you, uh, remember when we were fifteen?” he says as off-handedly as he can manage.

“Uh. Yeah?”

“And you stopped returning my calls?”

Mike pulls back enough to stare at him. Chuck shrugs, laughs a little, downplaying for all he's worth. “I'm not holding a grudge or anything, you just said that and I remembered, is all. I--remembered missing you.”

“I stopped… Chuck,” Mike says, dark eyes fixed on his. “I _couldn't_ call you, dude, I warned you that was coming up, the six months the cadets wouldn't be allowed to make any calls out and you were gonna have to… keep calling me… oh my god. You got wip--uh. A blank spot. Didn't you.”

He caught himself in time that only a warning twinge goes through Chuck’s temple, and Chuck quirks a grateful, distracted smile before going back to staring. “Seriously? You--why couldn't you make calls?”

Mike shrugs, arms tightening briefly around Chuck. “Part of cadet training.”

Chuck nods slowly. “To isolate you. Get you out of the habit of depending on anyone outside your fellow cadets.” He's holding Mike tighter too, now, without meaning to.

Mike's eyes widen. “Oh,” he says. “Oh wow. And it _worked_ for a while, geez, I just--I thought you didn't want to be friends anymore. It totally would've worked if I hadn't--uh. Well. If I tell you something that happened two years ago, is that gonna hurt you?”

Chuck chews on his lip. “Safe bet is not to try. It's always hard to tell, talking about stuff that happened while someone was, ah, on retroactive sick leave.”

Mike looks puzzled. “Sick leave?”

“Oh, right. Talking about--this stuff, we call it getting a fever,” Chuck says. “So, you can ask if someone got a fever around the time period you're thinking of, and if so, what they've got afterwards is--”

“Retroactive sick leave,” Mike finishes with a faintly amused snort. “Okay, but why a fever?”

“That's the story Medical tells you when you wake up, every time.”

“That seems… really dumb. Don't they realize you'd eventually figure out what that means?”

“You assume they'd care,” Chuck points out. He finally disengages and steps back, patting Mike on one bare olive shoulder. “Sit down, Mikey.”

Mike blinks and obeys after a minute, hesitantly taking Chuck’s seat. “If they care enough to lie about it, shouldn't they want you to believe it?”

Chuck puts his hands on Mike's gorgeous broad shoulders ( _fuck_ he grew up pretty) and starts rubbing them, working his thumbs into muscles tense from the pull of the cuffs behind his back. The startled moan Mike lets out blends perfectly with the ongoing ripple of sex noises from the cubicles around them. Chuck licks his lips and tells himself firmly that Mike is a friend and probably not interested in that.

“Medical doesn't give a f-hmm, a scrapped bot if we believe it or not,” he explains. “They're just maintaining plausible deniability, and if we're dumb enough to start thinking about it on our own and trigger a response, that's not their fault and _totally_ can't be linked to them in _any way_.” Chuck emphasizes the sarcastic drawl of the last bit because he's pretty sure the deadpan delivery that's traditional in tech circles won't go over well. Mike seems enough out of his depth that it's not fair to expect him to catch that kind of nuance. (Chuck is pretty sure Mike’s never been good at nuance anyway.)

“ _Nnh--_ oh. Huh-- _ahh._ ”

God those are nice noises he's making. Don't think about it, just--focus.

“Anyway, yeah, there's talking about--the fever--straight out, that's a pretty consistent trigger, but also--” Fuck it's hard talking about this stuff without letting his thoughts go anywhere dangerous, but for Chuck’s safety and the safety of his coworkers, Mike’s got to know how to navigate this. How does he _not_ know? If he got made a PRT sometime in the last few years, he's got to have been assigned here bef--oh. No, he's the wrong branch, Chuck was forgetting, techs don't get whipping boys. He's only here now thanks to a prank.

“Okay,” Chuck tries, “imagine I got half a day of retroactive sick leave. And folks were celebrating something during that time, and everybody was, say, drinking certain beverages that might not be Kane-approved, and later someone tells me about the party and how great it was--because remember, I wasn't there now, I was on sick leave--if I got the fever _because_ I got caught drinking, when they mention the drinks it's gonna hit another implanted trigger, set off the brain burn. But, if instead, during that time I hacked something I wasn't supposed to and got found out like a dumba--uh, an idiot--telling me about the _party_ isn't going to be an issue. Probably. There are always exceptions.”

“Brain burn,” Mike says, sounding sort of strangled. “Oh my god.”

“Huh?” Chuck says, pushing the heels of his palms into Mike's upper back. Mike groans low in response and shivers go up Chuck’s spine.

“I could never figure out why you always seemed amused about--oh. Um. How can you tell if a certain, uh, topic is a trigger or not?”

“If you know why someone got the fever in the first place, you can guess pretty accurately most of the time. In the case of _three fucking years_ \--oh, sorry.”

“‘s okay,” Mike says. At least he's relaxed enough now that he barely flinched at the curse.

“That's a long time, so it could be lots of stuff. Anything they know about and disapprove of, potentially. Although it's more likely that they picked a major theme or two and didn't bother with the details.” It takes rigid self-control not to wonder yet again what his themes are, _what the hell Chuck did_ , but he's got it down by now, he pushes the questions away with the barest tightening across his temples.

“Huh.” Mike thinks about it and sighs. “I guess… I don't wanna hurt you, buddy. Guess I'll just keep it to myself.”

Chuck shrugs, works his thumbs against the base of Mike’s skull, making him moan. “It's not like the brain burn lasts forever, either. In three or four months I should--a person is usually able to start testing things to see what's become safe.” He can't think too closely about how any of this applies to him, gotta keep it hypothetical.

Mike freezes. Then he twists around in the chair to stare at Chuck, eyes round and wild with hope. “It goes away?”

“The pain goes away,” Chuck corrects. “The burn scars over and heals. Whatever happened during sick leave, though, you don't get that back.”

“Okay, but say someone wanted to tell you what had happened,” Mike says.

Chuck frowns at him. “That assumes someone who knows everything that happened, in which case they probably had a fever too.”

“But if they didn't,” Mike persists, “could they tell you without hurting you?”

Chuck’s mouth opens and then he has to close it again. “You know,” he says when he's got breath again. It's a statement, not a question. “You know what happened, what I did-- _nngh._ ” It's a warning pang, nothing like the attack Mike set off earlier, but the wildly spinning curiosity trying to take over Chuck’s mind has to be kept in check. Stop thinking about it, answer the question.

“Hypothetically speaking,” he says, voice a little strained, “that person probably could share some stories with a post-fever friend. I don't actually know, I don't--think that's ever--think anyone's ever tried it before. Playing with fire, you know. Don't want to burn a friend by mistake.”

Mike nods, eyes still locked intently on Chuck’s face. “Yeah. Yeah, I definitely don't want to do that. But when you feel better, I can tell you things--”

“We gotta stop talking about this,” Chuck gasps as the pang turns into a dangerous throbbing. “It's making me want to think about it and I can't do that. Change the subject.”

“Okay! Sorry! Um--” Mike pauses, eyes flicking around the cubicle for inspiration. Next door, Anton lets out a gasping sort of yelp as he comes. Mike twitches and screws up his face. “Okay. _Why_ is everyone doing this _here?_ ”

Well, that works. Chuck snorts at him, pushing at his shoulders to turn him back around. “Not that many people are actually up for fu-uh, for sex in the break room. I mean, it's more comfortable, sure, but if anyone else is in there it's exhibitionism all around.”

“Oh my god, that's not what I--wow. Dude. This doesn't _count?_ I mean, I guess it could be _more_ public, but it could also be _way_ less, like in your _pods_.”

Chuck is trying to understand, but-- “Pods are for when you need to get away by yourself, though, you're not going to bring anyone else back there. It's not like anyone's having sex outside their cubes, here. I mean, that’s private, everyone’s in their own space.”

Mike twists around again to stare at him, in disbelief this time. Holy shit, he's _blushing_ , a ruddy tint to his olive cheeks _._ Chuck’s whole body goes hot and he swallows hard.

“Chuck. We can hear, like, _everything_ ,” Mike says, lowering his voice. “That doesn't count as _public?_ ”

“Well you're not supposed to _listen!_ ” Chuck says indignantly, squeaking a little.

“How are you supposed to _not listen?_ ”

“You just--do?” Chuck lowers his own voice further. “Come on, you were in the barracks, you start out living all together in one big room, right? Didn't you guys have something like that, ignoring what the other guys are doing at night in their own bunks?”

Mike's expression changes, goes still and distant and unreadable just before he turns away again. “Nobody in the barracks does anything at night in their bunks,” he says flatly.

“Holy… crap,” Chuck mutters. “So that's true? The cadets are chemically castrated?”

“What?!” Mike says, jerking in his chair. “No! We--they--you _keep_ everything, it just doesn't, you know, _do_ much.”

“Yeah, that's what I meant. They're drugged or something, and--” Chuck’s hands freeze on Mike's shoulders. Oh god. Mike went from being a cadet to being a physical relief technician, oh _god_. In the gladiatorial branch, okay, don't panic, he just gets beat up a lot, probably nobody--

The way he looks? says a dubious voice at the back of Chuck’s mind. You're a high up exec, you order a session with a whipping boy to take out your frustration on, and he’s shaped like _this_ with those eyes and that mouth, and you're _not_ going to do whatever you want with him?

Oh god that's so _bad_ , oh god, oh god--

Chuck’s mind is going blank with a white-static crackle of anxiety and anguish, narrowing in on the awful implications, his hands are clamped on Mike's shoulders but he can't really feel them, his breathing is speeding faster and faster--

“Chuck? Crap, did you hit another trigger? Stop thinking about it, dude!”

The words barely get through, they don't mean anything, he can't _think_ \--

“Shit!” says a voice from the doorway. “What the hell did you _do_ to him, you stupid--”

“Nothing! He just started--I don't think it's a trigger, he's just, y’know, zoning out, he used to do that--”

“He's having a _panic attack_ , you braindead jock,” the other voice snarls, and then there's a hand on Chuck’s shoulder, there's a gentle voice in his ear saying, “You're okay, man, everything's okay, come on, breathe with me.”

Chuck tries. After a bit it works, he can slow his breathing, stop being hypnotized by his jittering, horrifying thoughts and focus on just this, listening to his coworker’s carefully timed breaths. Inhale, exhale. Inhale… exhale. He's okay. And Mike's okay. Mike's here, he's breathing--everything else is negotiable.

“I'm okay,” he manages eventually, voice almost steady. His heart has settled back to a more reasonable pace instead of trying to escape from his chest through his throat, and his brain is getting quiet enough to ignore again. He opens his eyes.

Ben is standing next to him, no shirt to cover his chest and the smooth curve of his belly, concerned eyes fixed on Chuck. Mike is leaning against the far wall looking bewildered and dismayed.

Ben smells like sweet massage oil, and his black hair is back in a smug ponytail to keep it off his oil-sticky brown skin. Chuck tries to ignore the nipping jealousy. He doesn't know how long his own hair had a chance to get before this last fever.

“Better?” Ben says.

Chuck rounds his shoulders in an uncomfortable shrug. “Yeah, I'm fine, I--thanks. You didn't have to interrupt your massage.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Right, because a panic attack is no big deal, we should all just sit tight like _this_ dumbass and listen to you hyperventilate until your heart gives out.”

“Your _heart--?_ ” Mike says in alarm.

“Figure of speech, that doesn't actually happen,” Chuck says, putting his face in his hands. God, this is so awkward, he kind of wants to not be here right now. He never wanted to have panic attacks around Mike, but it happened more than once when they were growing up, and it was always so humiliating to have his inadequacy shown up like that, especially around confident, athletic, perfect Mike. He's not surprised that hasn't changed in the intervening years, but it still sucks.

“Sure,” Ben says, “you just _feel_ like your heart's going to burst in your chest, or you're going to suffocate, or the brain burn gets involved and shit gets _really_ fun! That's a _lot_ better.”

“Dude, lay off,” Chuck mutters.

“Oh my god,” Mike says faintly. And then, louder, “Chuck, why the heck did you tell me it was like a brain hiccup?! If I'd had any idea...”

“You would've--what, exactly?” Ben says in a skeptical tone.

“ _Dude_ ,” says Chuck. “Quit it.”

“I would've known better than to ignore it like it was no big deal!” Mike says.

“It _is_ no big deal!” Chuck says, throwing up his hands.

Ben crosses his arms. “Sure, that's what you said last week when you were helping Clive through one. Absolutely. Don't be a fucking moron.”

“He’s dealing with sick leave and he got in a brain burn/anxiety feedback loop!” Chuck retorts, crossing his. “That's a lot worse.”

Ben nods. “Which means that yours is unimportant, right? For fuck’s sake, man, give your goddamn issues the same respect you give everyone else's.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, and Ben blinks at him. “That doesn't sound like no big deal, dude, it sounds like it _sucks_.”

Chuck stares at him, struck dumb. He wasn't supposed to say that. He was supposed to say something awkward that didn't quite hide that he thinks Chuck is a pathetic mess, because god, Chuck really is. He wasn't supposed to sound concerned, like it's an actual problem instead of Chuck just being stupid and high-strung. This conversation just went off the tracks and Chuck has no idea what to say now.

Ben rarely has that problem. “Well,” he says, looking thoughtfully at Mike, “maybe you're not as dumb as I thought. Just gullible.”

“Hey!” Chuck says, annoyed.

Mike's mouth twists into a half-smile with no humor whatsoever in it. “Oh no, he's definitely got me there. I'm working on it, though.”

And again, no idea what to say. Mike looks grim and almost bitter, suddenly, so he can't be thinking about Chuck’s little white lie, surely? So--what then?

Ben raises his eyebrows, gives a little shake off his head, _okay none of my business_ , and turns back to Chuck. “Brain hiccup,” he says, lips twitching up a fraction, just enough to let Chuck know that he's being laughed at.

Chuck glares at him. “I was like _nine_ , give me a break!”

“Naw, I think it's cute,” he says blandly, still with that near-invisible smirk.

“Whatever, jackass. Well! Thanks for the assistance, I'd hate to keep you from your massage any longer!”

“I'd worry about keeping you from yours except I know how you are with PRTs,” Ben says, looking from Chuck to Mike and back again.

“Oh my god fuck _off_ ,” Chuck says, face going hot.

“We have to make sure one's assigned specifically to him,” Ben explains to Mike, “because he won't ask any of them himself. Too shy.”

“Shut up, I am not!”

Mike's smile has turned real now and he tilts his head at Chuck, amused. “You kind of are, dude.”

“Oh my _god_ you're both horrible and you _suck!_ ”

“Well, _I_ don't,” Ben says judiciously, and Chuck starts groaning before he can even finish, hoping to drown him out, “but _he_ might.”

“ _Agh_ ,” Chuck says, hiding his face in his hands again. “Dude, _no_. First, he's a fighter, not a masseuse! And second, we're friends, okay, it's not like that!”

“Hmm,” Ben says, and Chuck drops his hands to frown at him, but he's looking at Mike. Chuck looks over, and Mike looks--odd. Sort of strained and tired, suddenly. He tries to smile at Chuck and it wobbles slightly.

“Should you sit down?” Chuck says, concerned. “You don't look so good.”

Mike shrugs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I'm fine, Chuckles,” he says quietly.

“Welp,” Ben mutters. “ _That_ sucks.”

Chuck frowns at him and Ben shrugs broadly. “It's too bad, I was hoping for a show match.”

Chuck has the feeling that's not what he was talking about a minute ago, but there's no use pursuing it. Ben is harder to crack than most encryption.

He snorts. “Right, because that would go so well!”

“It might,” Ben says with a half-grin. “Give you a chance to strut your stuff, show us what a badass you are.”

“Wait, what?” Mike says, looking between them, wide-eyed, and agh, this is going to sound so stupid to even an _ex_ -cadet!

“It's a running joke,” Chuck says, half in a groan. “Just because I've got some weird reflexes--”

“Some of which include sweet moves like throws and chokeholds,” Ben puts in. “And also because he's packing a surprising amount of muscle for a sedentary tech, and there's the inexplicable scars, and--”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Chuck says, glaring, “just because of that, the guys like to joke around like I'm some kind of secretly deadly ninja warrior and could actually kick ass.”

Mike is smiling a little again, but it doesn't look mocking or even amused like Chuck would expect. “Sounds fair to me,” he says, and he sounds--pleased? That's kind of weird. Maybe he's glad Chuck isn't the weakling he used to be.

(It's bizarre looking at himself in the mirror shirtless now, not that Chuck makes a habit of that. It's not like he's _built_ or anything, he's too skinny to manage that, but he does have way more muscle than he remembers, and some weird scars, and he doesn't know where any of it _came_ from.)

“Yeah, well, there's no way I'd have a chance against _you_ ,” Chuck grumbles, “even if I could fight.”

“You don't really like sparring anyway,” Mike says with an easy shrug.

Chuck frowns at him. “When the hell did I ever spar with you? I don't know _how_ to spar.”

Mike’s eyes go round and he bites his lips closed.

 _Oh._ Chuck tenses up, but the implication of having learned some amount of fighting from Mike sometime in the nebulous past doesn't seem to be enough to set off much reaction besides the warning tightness in his temples.

“God, Mikey,” he says, relaxing a bit shakily.

“I'm sorry,” Mike says, eyes still wide, “I'm really sorry, dude, I just totally didn't think.”

“I realize you're new to the concept of fevers and sick leave,” Ben growls, “but you’ve _got_ to think before you speak. If you get our boy here fried, you're gonna have a whole crew of angry techs out for your blood, and that may not seem like much of a threat, but--”

“I won't,” Mike says firmly. “I'll be more careful.”

“Let him be, Ben, he's trying,” Chuck says.

Ben is frowning at Mike like he's trying to figure something out, scanning him up and down. “Oh my fuck,” he says abruptly, eyes widening. “‘ _Mikey_ ’ _?_ You--you’re Mike _Chilton_ , the leader of the--” He cuts himself off as Mike flinches, corrects himself. “I mean. Motorcity Mike. Holy shit.”

“Dude, are you _crazy?_ ” Mike says frantically, looking to Chuck with wide eyes, and the panic on his face is the tipoff.

Mike was the leader of something in Motorcity, and he thinks that should set off Chuck’s brain burn, which means Chuck was involved somehow, was maybe even _there_ \--he was _with_ _Mike_ in _Motorcity_ \--

The pain in his head drops him on the floor. It's eternal and skull-shattering, all thought shriveling in the white-hot burn of it.

When it starts to recede, he's shaking, curled in a ball with his arms wrapped uselessly around his head. His skull is pounding, aftershocks that make him pant and twitch, and there’s voices overhead that weren't there a minute ago.

“--could you even--you just _being_ here puts him at risk.”

“I’ve figured that out, thanks,” Mike says tightly from just above Chuck’s head. “I'm sorry, I--god, Chuck…”

“Hey, you back with us?” says Anton, from slightly farther away. “Give me the first thirty primes.”

It's a helpful trick to distract you from thinking about what just triggered you, thus hitting the trigger again and potentially locking yourself in a feedback loop until you pass out--or hit cardiac arrest--but Chuck can tell it's unnecessary this time. “‘S’okay,” he wheezes, “think I lost some time. I don't remember hitting the floor. I'm not sure what we were talking about.”

“Well, shit,” Anton says. “I mean I guess that's good, that looked like a bad one. But geez, man, you gotta be more careful.”

Chuck wants to protest, but he has no idea what set this off, so for all he knows he was a fucking moron and thought too hard about something. “ _Ngh_ ,” he says instead, opening his eyes. “I'm… uh, fine…”

“ _No you're not_ ,” says a chorus of voices because holy _shit_ , there are like eight people clustered in here and the cubicle is not that big. Also, Chuck is not entirely lying on the floor, his shoulders and head are raised--because _oh._ He's lying half in Mike’s lap, oh god wow, that's kind of _intimate_ and all these people are _watching_ and Chuck was just spazzing out on the floor, he must look like a total _idiot_ \--

“Whoa, Chuckles, breathe, dude, you're okay.” Mike's hand is on his back, stroking warm and slow, and it helps.

Chuck is not having two panic attacks in one day, that's dumb. He closes his eyes again and focuses on breathing slowly and carefully. Mike’s mostly-bare thigh is all warm muscle under his cheek, which, okay, is at least distracting.

“You know how when you've been sick you need to be careful around strangers,” Ben says, “because they've got germs you might not be immune to?”

“Dude,” Mike says heavily, “I said I _know_. I'll go as soon as he's up, but I'm not leaving him like this.”

“Wait, what?” Chuck says, eyes snapping open again. “No! Mike isn't going anywhere!”

“Chuck,” Anton says, “seriously, bad plan.” His eyebrows are high and there's an oddly urgent look on his tanned face. His blue-streaked hair slips from behind his ears to fall in his face and he impatiently shoves it back again. It's not long enough to be proud of yet, but he's been trying.

Chuck frowns around at the assembled techs and notes that everyone looks pretty weird, actually. They're all staring at him and Mike like… like Mike was doing backflips like a showoff and then Chuck joined in. Or something. Kind of astonished and poleaxed.

“Mikey, help me up.”

His head spins and throbs viciously as soon as he's even partly vertical, and he has to stay sitting for the moment, leaning on Mike.

“They're right,” Mike says quietly. “I shouldn't stay here--this is exactly what he meant to happen, I can't--I should go.”

“He who-- _oh_ ,” Ben says.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Raoul mutters from the doorway.

Chuck frowns at Mike, then glares around at the company. “Okay, none of you seem to get this, so I'm going to be very clear. Mike is _staying here_. I've known him since we were kids, I'm kind of _fond_ of him, and he's a fucking _chew-toy_ for bored execs! Did you miss the cuffs? They don't even let him fight back because he'd kick their asses! So _no_ , I'm not sending him back to be on call for some bastard to treat him like shit! He can have one fucking night off!”

Ben glances between Mike and Chuck, looking helpless. “Chuck, it's not safe for you, man, he said it himself!”

Chuck narrows his eyes. “Do I look like I give a shit?”

Ben’s mouth tightens in reproach and Chuck softens a little. He looks at Mike, who's staring at him round-eyed. “You know what to keep quiet on now, right?”

“Uh,” Mike says, and looks at everybody else. “Yyyeah, I think I'm. Pretty clear.”

“Think we're all pretty clear,” Anton mutters, and there's a general murmur and headshake of agreement.

Chuck blinks around at them all. “What, seriously?”

“Yeah,” Ben sighs. “Definitely.”

“Ohhhkay.” Great, everybody knows what Chuck’s trigger was, meaning they have more of a clue about his recent past than he does. That's not unfair at all. “Well. Good, that means you all can avoid it easier. Including Mike. So, thanks for the help, I think we're good now.”

The guys in the doorway slide back out of sight and the rest start following them. Anton shrugs, claps Chuck on the shoulder, and slips past Ben, who is obviously not convinced yet. Chuck hunkers down mulishly, ready for a fight, but Ben just shakes his head.

“I'm not going to fight you, dipshit, just--” He sighs and runs a hand over his hair. “You gotta take care of yourself, you were... out sick a long time, right? Be careful.”

“I can do that,” Chuck says, slowly relaxing.

“Good. Keep yourself distracted and enjoy your, uh,” he glances at Mike, “visit. And _you_.” He stabs a finger at Mike. “You be careful as _hell._ ”

“I will,” Mike says steadily. “I'll watch myself.”

“Good,” Ben says. He shakes his head once and turns to go.

“Um. Enjoy your--massage?” Mike says, and gets a brief flick of a sardonic smile before Ben steps out.

“His actually _is_ just a massage,” Chuck says, absently. “He's not interested in the other services.”

“Oh,” Mike says. Chuck is vaguely expecting some ignorant question about if Ben is broken or sick or something, until Mike tilts his head and says, “Ace?”

Chuck stares, coming back from chewing on that whole weird sequence of events--well, the ones he remembers, anyway--to pay attention again. “Y-yeah. Cadets learn about--?”

“Hah! No,” Mike says. “No, I, um, I picked up some things… more recently.”

Chuck wonders uneasily what kinds of things you learn in PRT training, and then quickly stops thinking about it.

“Hey,” Mike says softly. “Thanks. I don't want to hurt you, but if you think I won't and you want me here--I really, really want to stay.”

Chuck swallows. The way Mike's looking at him is intense, all warm and soft with those dark eyes, his lips slightly parted. “Good,” he croaks.

Mike slowly leans toward him, then pauses with his face close to Chuck’s.

“Can I kiss you?” he says in a low voice.

Chuck’s eyes get so round they're probably showing whites. For a second his lungs sort of seize and he can't even breathe, much less talk. Mike puts a cautious hand on his shoulder and waits.

Chuck finally sucks in a breath and says, high-pitched, “That's seriously okay, you don't have to seduce me to stay, I meant it about the night off thing, you don't have to like, fill in for the masseuse I didn't get, seriously bro I wouldn't make you do that--”

“Dude, I _know_. I know all that.” Mike pauses again, searching his face. “You--you don't want to. Okay. That's… okay.” Except he doesn't look like it is, he looks halfway to devastated as he starts to pull back and that's not even _close_ to okay, it can't stand. He can't possibly be interested in Chuck, but if he just wants a gentle touch for once, Chuck can't possibly deny him that, especially when it's _Mike_ and he's _so hot_ and--

He stares helplessly at Mike, groans aloud, and leans in to clumsily kiss him. Mike clutches at his shoulders and deepens the kiss, moaning softly into it even while he proceeds to destroy Chuck’s ability to think or control himself or do anything but whimper.

Chuck finally pulls away because he needs to breathe and he can't do it while he's being kissed like that. “Oh my god, Mikey,” he pants.

“Yeah,” Mike says, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded. “You okay, buddy?”

Chuck has to kiss him again just to prove how stupid a question that is, and this time when he pulls back they're both gasping. Mike leans his forehead against Chuck’s and just breathes. Chuck’s hands have settled at Mike's hips over the waistband of those tiny shorts, thumbs stroking restlessly back and forth over the ripples of stomach muscle as Chuck tries to ignore the vicious bruises his palms are hiding. The darkest spots are on Mike’s hip bones, just showing over the top of his shorts, and Chuck is trying not to think about the most likely way they got there.

“The other guys are totally right, you know that?” Mike murmurs. “You _are_ a badass. You're amazing. I shouldn't have been surprised you'd stand up against everyone for me, I know what you're like, but god, watching you get ready to fight for me is so--” He shivers and licks his lips and Chuck’s mouth goes dry. “ _God_ you're hot.”

The words don't even compute for a long minute, and then they don't make sense. Chuck frowns, leans back to see his face better. “Bro? You, uh, remember who you're talking to?”

Mike stares, then twists his lips to one side. “Dude. Yes. I know exactly who I'm talking to, _Chuckles_ , and you're really,” he lowers his voice, “really sexy.”

“I'm really not,” Chuck says, unnerved.

Mike sighs. “You really are, but it's okay, you don't have to believe me.”

“Good,” Chuck says, nodding, and instead of being pissed off like any normal person, Mike just snorts and grins and leans in to kiss him some more.

It doesn't take long before Chuck’s pants are kinda tight. And that's an issue, actually, for more than one reason. Like, how exactly _has_ Mike been treated, in this job? Is sex even a good idea for him? Is he even thinking about sex, or is he still cadet-innocent about that and thinks making out is an end in itself? (Maybe? But probably not, judging by the skill he kisses with, which points back to OH GOD NO on the list and he is not having a panic attack now either, nope, not happening.)

Possibly Chuck should just--cut this short before it goes anywhere more. His throat is dry and he's starting to get hungry, so it's a good time to take a break anyway. He kisses Mike one last time, whimpers when Mike bites his lip, and pulls back.

“I'm really thirsty, man,” he says, after a breath or two to steady his voice, “and I could use a snack. You wanna come with, get something from the break room?”

Mike's eyes widen. “I thought you said there were people having sex in there.”

“Sometimes, yeah, but they don't mind people coming in or they wouldn't be there.” By the look on Mike's face, Chuck is missing the point. He tries again. “They might be done by now, anyway. I mean--” he waves a hand around at the way most of the sex noise has died down. People are taking a break, getting some work done or napping or playing smuggled games.

“Right,” Mike says, sounding not at all convinced. He shifts uncomfortably, glances down and swallows. “Um. I'd rather not go walking around like this, though.”

Chuck follows his look and oh _wow_. Those shorts were not designed to hide anything about Mike's current state. Chuck somehow didn't realize Mike might be affected just as much as him, thought that was a pathetic nerd thing, but apparently not. He lets out a shaky breath and his brain sort of hangs up and spins for a minute. Sex _could_ be a bad idea, but on the other hand if it's Chuck helping Mike out and not getting--serviced--by him, that should be different, right?

He has to try twice before his voice works. “I c-could--help you with that?”

Mike's head snaps up to stare. He closes his eyes and a tiny sound comes out of him. “ _God_ you have no idea how much I want that. But--” He looks around the cubicle, obviously seeing past the walls to all the other people nearby and looking less than happy. “This really doesn't count as private to me, dude. Can we just--you go grab a drink and some snacks, and then we can go back to your pod?”

The pleading look on his face is incredibly effective, especially with the flush still on his cheeks and his lips kissed red. He'll have a curfew pass for Chuck, PRTs usually do, that's not the issue. Chuck doesn't want to say no, but Mike is obviously still a clueless cadet in some ways and doesn't understand what he's asking for.

“Mike,” he starts, and Mike drops his eyes at the tone of Chuck’s voice. “No, man, listen to me. If you really want, we can do that--” Mike looks up hopefully, “but I'd rather not. I mean,” he stops to try to put into words all the things the techs know without much discussion, just by the nature of their job.

“Your problem is privacy? Pods don't have any. There are bugs and cameras everywhere, not to mention the whole transparent walls thing, and it's just not--they're not safe.” Chuck bites his lip, decides not to mention the possibility that any pod’s flight plan and piloting could be overridden by Control at any time. Better not to sound paranoid, even if a little paranoia is a tech’s saving grace.

“Sure, there are people here, but they're not going to come barging in without warning, and nobody’s listening. Every bug that gets planted in this office fritzes out within a couple of days, they just don't do well around all the electronics.”

Mike is not looking convinced. Chuck tries again.

“Sometimes we go to our pods to get some alone time or to sleep, but we live _here_. This is our place, okay? It's _safe_. You're safe here.”

That hits home, and Mike’s eyes widen. “How do you know?” he says in a low voice, eyes flicking toward the door of Chuck’s cubicle.

Fuck, is he actually wary of the other techs?

“Because I trust these guys with my sanity on a daily basis, and they trust me with theirs,” Chuck says steadily. “We've got each other's backs. They're good guys, I've known--I knew... most of them for a couple of years, since I was an intern.” Remembering that it wasn't a continuous stretch of time, he falters for a moment. He doesn't know if he was here for the missing three years. If he was, it's more like five years he's known the other techs--but if he can't remember, it doesn't really count, does it.

He pushes the familiar discomfort away, picks up the thread. “And the PRTs are just here for their job. Nobody's gonna hurt you here,” he adds more quietly, just a guess, but the way Mike’s desperate smile in response wobbles says it all.

“Heh, yeah, I know that, man, that's not--not what I--” He stops, smile disintegrating, and swallows hard. “Okay. We're safe. Okay,” he says, and covers his face with his hands. His breathing shudders and Chuck’s arms go around him without conscious thought.

“Okay,” Mike whispers, “okay. God. It's--been a while s-since I felt...”

“Yeah,” Chuck murmurs. “I'm getting that, bro. But you're okay now, I've got you.”

Mike's hands drop to go around Chuck fiercely and he buries his face in Chuck’s shoulder, shaking. His breathing hitches and Chuck can't tell if he's crying or just close to it. Chuck’s chest aches and he strokes Mike's mostly-bare back slowly.

“I never cared about being safe before,” Mike says, low in Chuck’s ear. “I always liked danger, loved the rush. But this--it isn't like that, there's no rush, he just doesn't _stop_ , and I'm so tired.” His voice cracks and dwindles to a whisper again. “I'm so tired, Chuck.”

Chuck’s heart is breaking, but a corner of his mind is caught by the oddity there. ‘He’ doesn't stop, not ‘they’, not the drag of PRT work in general. And Mike said before that ‘he’ somehow intended Chuck’s brain burn to get set off. Mike’s not talking like a PRT with one problem client, he sounds like he's only got one in the first place, one who thinks burning out a tech sounds funny, who has enough power not to worry about paying for it if his joke costs Kane Co some productivity.

Shit, no wonder Mike’s messed up if he's working for a high up exec who's that much of a sadistic douche. Chuck wonders how high, if it could be one of Kane’s inner circle, even, if Mike got awarded to someone by Kane himself. This is definitely not the time to ask.

“I got you, Mikey,” Chuck says. “You're okay, bro, you're here with me. Don't think about the rest of it, okay? Just--be here.”

Mike nods against him, lets out another sobbing breath, and clings. Chuck holds him and wonders very quietly at the back of his mind how hard it would be to persuade Mike to flee to Motorcity. Because this isn't okay, and Chuck's not going to just hang out recovering from sick leave, boosting office productivity and enjoying the rewards while his best friend is slowly fraying and coming apart.

Eventually Mike pulls in a breath that doesn't shake and sighs. When he pulls back, it's a weird shock to see that even though he looks worn and exhausted, his face is dry. He tries a smile for Chuck and it's almost successful.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Can you kiss me again?”

Chuck swallows and does. He hasn't actually had that much experience with kissing, apart from Justin when he was fourteen and the PRTs the last couple of weeks. He's pretty sure that he can't be much good at it, but Mike doesn't seem to mind, melting into him and doing things that bring the most embarrassing noises out of Chuck, whines and moans and little shocked breathless sounds.

Mike finally pulls back and groans. “I'm an idiot,” he says, half amused and half annoyed. “You're just so cute like this, though, and it's so good to…” He trails off, eyes hungry on Chuck’s face, then shakes his head quickly, huffs and looks at the ceiling. “I was almost okay to stand up and now I'm all…”

Chuck bites his lip, grinning. “All standing up again?”

Mike makes a strangled noise and smacks at him, grinning and red-faced. Chuck ducks, snickering, and leans in closer. “I can still help you out with that, if you want. Or you can stay here, and I can go get some drinks and stuff.”

Mike’s hand snaps out, fastens on Chuck’s wrist. “Don't leave. Please,” he says very quietly.

Chuck blinks, puts his hand over Mike’s. “Okay. Whatever you want, bro.” He stops as something occurs to him. “Uh, as far as the privacy thing goes, would it help if no one could hear us?”

Mike stares at him. “That'd definitely help, yeah.”

“Okay, hang on,” Chuck says, and flicks up a screen. “Cone of Silence plus ten,” he mutters to himself, grinning a little, and keys in the command. Abrupt quiet falls as the noise from the cubicles all around them cuts out, low conversation and game music and moans from the one pair still going all flattened into silence at once. Chuck doesn't like using the mute button because it feels so creepy to know usual office life is going on all around him when he can't hear it, but if it makes Mike more comfortable, it's worth it.

“Holy crap,” Mike breathes. “How--what'd you do?”

“We're testing out an experimental device for R&D, officially,” Chuck says. “It's a networked sound canceler, there's a unit in each cubicle. You can cut off just sound going out, or both coming in and going out.” He grins wider. “We're only supposed to use it to discuss classified projects, but it comes in handy a lot more often than that.”

Mike has an odd expression on. “Like when you're feeling shy about making noise?”

“Uh. Sure?” Not that Chuck cares a lot about making sex noises when the PRTs are used to it on a daily basis and none of the techs care. “Or when you're talking about things that maybe wouldn't thrill Kane if it got back to him.”

Mike's eyes widen and he starts to smile, incredulous. “Like what?”

“Oh my god, like all kinds of things, are you kidding? He's pretty easy to annoy.” Chuck’s not quite ready to give specifics yet.

“You're _awesome_ ,” Mike says, bright-eyed, and pulls Chuck in for another kiss.

When Chuck straightens up a while later, panting, Mike sways after him with a complaining noise. Chuck laughs a little. “Mikey, did you want me to do something for you, or--”

“God, please,” Mike says hastily. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. “Please touch me,” he whispers.

Chuck gulps and breathes very carefully for a moment. He's hot all over and his mouth is watering, he can almost taste Mike already and it needs to be real, that needs to happen. “Okay, man,” he says hoarsely. “You got it.”

He gets Mike’s shorts open as Mike’s legs splay wider and Chuck swallows again because oh, no underwear, hey Mike’s dick it's _really good_ to meet you. Probably he should be careful, move a little slow here, but he absolutely can't stand not having his mouth on Mike a second longer. Chuck groans and leans down, wraps his hand around the base as Mike gasps and twitches, and slides as much into his mouth as will fit.

Mike’s thigh is quivering under Chuck’s free hand. Chuck's not that much more skilled at this than he is at kissing, but Mike doesn't seem to even notice. Chuck sucks once, twice, and Mike is _gone_ , curled over Chuck in his lap, clutching at his shoulders and shaking.

Somewhat astonished, Chuck waits him out, gets him cleaned up and tucked away again, and holds him as Mike sags against him, fingers digging into Chuck’s shirt. Chuck is caught between amazement--because holy _shit_ Mike is incredibly hot and has always been so cool and somehow still likes him a lot and he just got Mike off, holy _fuck_ \--and concern. Because it should _not_ have been that easy. He went off like no one's touched him in weeks, like he hasn't even touched himself, and that's a little unnerving.

“You okay, Mikey?” he says softly.

Mike nods, still breathing raggedly, head ducked against Chuck’s chest so his face is hidden. ...Yeah, unnerving. Trying not to think about possible explanations, because they start bad and get worse, Chuck strokes his back and keeps holding him.

It takes a while for Mike to level out again, but after a bit his breathing eases and he sits up, gives Chuck a small, shaky smile. “God, Chuckles,” he says, and shakes his head. Then his eyes drop to Chuck’s crotch and he licks his lips. Chuck’s stomach twists, because instead of being eager, it’s a more nervous gesture than he's ever seen from Mike.

“Can I, uh, return the--g-give you a hand?” Mike says. His smile doesn't look any steadier, and his eyes are a little too wide.

Chuck’s misgivings are anything but diminished. He's becoming pretty clear taking Mike up on that would be a bad plan. On the upside, his welling sick anxiety over all the fucked up possibilities of Mike’s circumstances has done a lot to scale down the situation in his pants to something less pressing. On the downside, he has to figure out how to _turn Mike_ _down_ , which, what's even happened to Chuck’s life?

“Really, really tempting,” he says honestly, “but--maybe we can save that for later? You don't look so good, bro, I kinda want to get some food into you.”

Mike, who was shrinking into himself a little, suddenly snorts. “Now there's a reversal,” he mutters.

Chuck blinks at him, then suddenly remembers being thirteen, buried in programming homework and pounding away at one particularly thorny problem while Mike pestered him to eat something. He finally gave in in disgust when Mike wouldn't stop poking him with a nutrition bar, snatched it and ate it just to remove the means of torment. Then he was surprised at how much clearer he could think.

That happened kind of a lot, actually. He laughs, remembering, pushes away the little ache at not having that these days. “Seems fair,” he says, shrugging.

Mike’s smile at that is brief and unconvincing. “Is the problem--I won't do anything you don't want, I'm not gonna--you can trust me,” he says, and Chuck’s breath goes out of him.

“Mikey,” he says thinly, staring, “I _know_ that, I'm not worried, god. You would never.” Hell, that that's the first thought to come to mind for a reason to rebuff someone--that's. Not good.

Mike swallows. “Okay. So. You… don't want me to touch you? I mean, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to push, I just--”

“No,” Chuck says firmly, and Mike blinks wide-eyed before understanding and relaxing slightly. “That's definitely not it. I'm totally for that, I just--” Fuck, how does he say this. He blows out a breath, puts his hands on Mike’s shoulders. “I'm worried as hell--heck. Sorry. About you, dude,” he says quietly. “It just doesn't seem like a good idea right now, you know? Let's get a midnight snack and maybe we can talk about it some more when we get back.”

Mike looks at him for a long moment. Against his better sense, Chuck is half waiting for the eyeroll and quirked smile, _Come on, Chuckles, you worry too much_ , for the ten easy arguments his persistent, enthusiastic friend could muster for this. More realistically, he's expecting hunched shoulders and a stubborn push for _why_ it's not a good idea.

Instead Mike drops his eyes and shrugs, _I disagree but I won't argue_. “Okay.”

He's all closed up and pulled in on himself, like Chuck is some kind of dangerous authority, pointless or unsafe to argue with. It's fucking terrifying and Chuck doesn't know how to _fix it_.

...He doesn't know, but he was just thinking about how he thinks better with food in his stomach, and everything looks less grim that way, too. He could really use for things to look less grim right now, and probably so could Mike. He's not sure even raising their blood sugar can pull that off this time, though.

Still worth a shot. Getting up, he offers a hand to pull Mike to his feet. “Come on, bro, let's get something to eat.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mike's eyes are still on the floor when they get to the break room, and his voice is low, answering Chuck’s questions. God, this isn't what Chuck meant to do at all--he was trying to look out for him, not make things worse.

They step in the door and Chuck glances into the lounge area as he heads for the fridge. Miguel is slouched on the sofa playing a game on a small blue screen, and looks up to nod a greeting, wavy black hair slicked back from his face. Clive shows no sign of noticing there's anyone else in the vicinity, glaring fiercely at the screen he's reading. Poor guy, his hair is still barely a dark fuzz on his scalp. His fever was even more recent than Chuck’s.

“There, see?” Chuck says to Mike, waving a hand at the guys. “Sometimes people come in here to get _away_ from all the sex.”

Mike glances up and nods, shoulders relaxing noticeably, gives Chuck a sliver of a smile, then drops his eyes again.

Chuck swallows and grabs him something to eat. The guy's been underfed for days, judging by what Chuck can get out of him. Rooting through the communal portion of the fridge, Chuck looks for something a little more interesting than the throat cubes that were the first thing he handed Mike. It's tricky when he's trying to remember what the various contraband foods are usually disguised as, but he doesn't want to turn off the fridge-wide hologram that hides them from security raids, mostly because he's lazy. Then he sets eyes on a familiar label and grins. It looks like Deluxe carbonated water, but there are eight bottles of it, and there aren't that many people here who drink the stuff; it's got to be something more popular.

“Hey, Mikey,” he says casually, “you pretty much ditched that whole cadet stickler-for-the-rules thing, right?” He throws a look over his shoulder to find Mike staring at him from the small table, a throat cube halfway to his mouth.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Pretty much completely.”

“Great,” Chuck says with satisfaction. “I'd hate to shock you.” Under his fingers, the bottles are a slightly different shape than their Deluxe appearance. Turning from the fridge, he plunks down two bottles in front of Mike, and two small packages that looked like fruit-flavored throat cubes on the shelf--really some kind of fist-sized cheese-stuffed bun, he thinks, but who cares so long as it's not throat cubes.

Mike glances at the label on the bottles, frowning, and goes still, freezes utterly for what feels like an eternal moment. Within a breath, Chuck is wondering if he's made a really big mistake somehow, if Mike is actually going to report them all for smuggling--because the label is obviously not Deluxian. It's an image of a vast, gnarly tree, dark and eerie, and a young girl climbing it with a grinning crescent moon tucked under one arm. Kinda creepy, really, but he guesses they go in for that kind of stuff down there.

Finally Mike looks up at him. His eyes are huge, searching Chuck’s face, and Chuck can't understand his expression, but he thinks it's good?

“H-how did you--” Mike says, and stops, biting his lip. “Where did this come from?” His voice is so quiet the guys in the lounge probably can't hear him, and his eyes are focused on Chuck’s with a desperate intensity.

“Isn't that obvious?” Chuck says cautiously, sitting down. “Ground floor, dude.”

Mike’s intent look slides into bewilderment. “The ground floor doesn't have refreshments.”

Chuck sighs. “ _Ground floor_ , Mikey,” he repeats, eyebrows raised in significance.

Mike’s mouth rounds as he finally catches it. Then he blinks, flicks a glance at the opening to the lounge and jerks his head toward it, looking worried.

“No, no, they know about it too, it's okay.”

“Then why--?”

“Why would we make a habit of never talking out loud about a place no one should ever go, or know about, or buy snacks from, you mean?” Chuck says, raising his eyebrows. It feels weird to be giving Intern Orientation to someone who's always been as competent and ahead of the curve as Mike, but it's been a weird night all around.

Mike nods quickly, looking a little wide-eyed. “Okay, yeah. So, _how?_ ”

It's not that Chuck doesn't trust him, it's just that he's not quite sure about what kind of pressure Mike might be put under on a daily basis. So he shrugs. “We've got a few contacts.”

“We,” Mike says. “Like, a bunch of you, or just a couple, or--?”

Chuck shrugs again, gets out his cheese-bun and takes a bite. “Is it important?”

Mike shakes his head, more disbelief than an answer, and rips open the package to his own bun. He bites into it and closes his eyes, making a tiny noise that sounds almost pained. “ _God_ that's good.”

Chuck mumbles agreement and stuffs throat cubes in his mouth between bites of bread and cheese, because damn he's hungry, and if he eats more than his share of the buns there'll be complaints. Mike eats his own bun like he's starving, then looks dismayed when it's gone and picks at his throat cubes. Chuck can't help but think that he’s not acting like someone who's only ever eaten Deluxe food. Almost the opposite. Probably best not to think about that, as fascinating as the thought is of _Mike_ in _Motorcity_. His temples tighten a little, just a confirmation that's dangerous, and he distracts himself with primes.

He takes a long drink and Mike picks his own bottle up, looks it over uncertainly.

“Berry juice? That's it?”

Chuck blinks at him. “You want something harder? I'm pretty sure we've got--”

“No! No, this is great,” Mike says hastily, opening the bottle. He sips it and sighs contentedly, looks at Chuck and suddenly starts laughing.

Chuck frowns, wipes a hand over his mouth for any stray crumbs or anything, stops in the middle of reaching to check his hair because no, it's too short to look stupid (but that persistent reflex is how he knows his hair was longer before, longer than he’s ever remembered it). Mike has both hands over his face now and is still laughing, taken over by it and helpless.

Grinning involuntarily himself, Chuck leans forward and pokes him in the arm. “What? What's so funny?”

“Oh my god, you guys have _alcohol_ ,” Mike gasps, and keeps laughing.

“Uh, yeah? It's pretty good, you should really try it.”

“No,” Mike says, grinning fit to split his face, “No, I'm good, buddy.” He sobers a little, tilting a smile at Chuck. “He gives me things enough as it is, to make my head go all weird. Don't really feel like being drunk when I have a choice.”

Chuck swallows and takes another drink to distract himself from the sick twist in his gut, trying to ignore images of Mike drugged and confused and helpless. “Yeah, okay.”

Mike's smile crimps and goes apologetic, starts to fade, and that's not what Chuck meant to do, if Mike can deal with that kind of shit on a daily basis and still laugh his ass off over something random, Chuck wants him laughing.

“No, so what's so funny, dude? Let me in on the joke, huh?”

Mike's face brightens a little, but he hesitates. “I guess… I'm not really sure I can explain it?” He starts chuckling, though, which was Chuck’s real goal. It turns into another laughing fit, quieter this time, and when it settles down Mike gives Chuck that thrilled grin again.

“He didn't want it to go like this. I think I was supposed to set you off and hurt you,” his grin twists into a grimace, “yeah, and see what bad shape you're in and realize I couldn't help and probably lose hope--but he has no idea what it's like in here!” He laughs. “You're on sick leave, yeah, but you know how to _deal_ with it, and all your buddies are helping you out, and _god_ you've got food and drinks and _contacts_ down there!” He leans over the table, grinning like mad. “You guys are breaking all the rules right under his nose and he's got no clue, and now, thanks to him I _do!_ That's _awesome_ ,” he says, and starts laughing again.

Chuck smiles uneasily, a warning throb starting up behind his temples. He doesn't want to bring Mike down, but the guy's got to be more careful what he says. He's distracted from saying anything about it, though, by what Mike _isn't_ saying; a name, which Chuck is starting to unnervingly suspect.

“Hey,” Miguel says, leaning in the doorway. “Watch it with that. We're law-abiding citizens here, that's what you meant to say, right?”

“Oh! Uh, sorry,” Mike says, looking from him to Chuck. “But you were just telling me about--the stuff you guys, uh…”

“Resource reallocation from ground floor, yeah,” Chuck says, “but that's not the same as talking about the rules.” It's not that he resents Miguel sweeping in, it's that Mike is _his_ guest and Miguel is acting like Chuck wasn't going to set him straight or something. It's totally reasonable to feel prickly about that.

“The rules are bigger,” Miguel says. “Resource reallocation isn't a big deal, it's a tiny little thing, no one would mind that.”

Mike is staring at Miguel and Chuck wonders if he can read the sly eyebrow twitch to understand ‘This is what we tell ourselves, how we think about it in order to do it without getting burned’.

“Okay,” Mike says slowly, and glances back at Chuck. “I think I get it.”

“Cool,” Miguel says. “Sorry for butting in, man,” he says to Chuck. “I just figured, you know, sick leave, you should take it easy, not have to think about stuff to explain it to your new buddy.”

Chuck blinks at him, tilting his head slightly, and carefully restrains all the extremely sarcastic responses that come to mind. Miguel is actually a nice guy, even if he's really annoying right now. “Thanks,” he says instead of making any comments about having already done plenty of explaining tonight, especially since he has actually been set off twice, which would only back up Miguel’s point.

Miguel looks back at Mike and grins. “He ought to help with the taking it easy, though, right? Maybe the not-thinking too.”

Chuck’s face goes hot and he opens his mouth to sputter about dumb gladiator pranks, and stops before a word makes it out, remembering what Mike just said. Not a prank, this was completely deliberate. “ _Thank_ you, Miguel, did you need something?” he manages, pointedly.

“Nope! I'm good,” Miguel grins, and heads for the exit. “Back to work for _me_ ,” he sighs dramatically, and the door closes behind him.

“It's after midnight,” Mike says, looking from the door back to Chuck. “When do you guys _sleep?_ ”

Chuck shrugs. “Now and then. Usually after about five stim tabs your brain stops functioning when they wear off, and you either lie down or pass out at your desk. So, like, every two days.”

Mike gives him a funny look and snorts, then shakes his head. “This explains kind of a lot,” he mutters, but Chuck isn't really paying attention anymore.

Trying to think without thinking too hard, he finishes his last throat cube and drinks some juice, puts the bottle down more carefully than necessary and rolls it between his palms. “Mikey. You think your, uh, the guy you work for sent you to me as a nasty trick. So... he knows we were friends?”

Mike chews on his lip a minute. “Yeah. He does. Um. Be careful what you ask, dude,” he says, dark eyes concerned. “I'm not good at this, like, talking around what I'm trying to say thing. And I really, really don't want to mess up again. Plus I think your friends might throw me out if it happens again,” he adds ruefully.

Chuck nods, then shakes his head, realizing what he was agreeing with. “No, it's not gonna happen again, and no one's throwing you anywhere. I thought he might be hoping you would beat me up or something,” he says, going back to his main concern, “but if he knows we were friends that's not it. Did he _really_ think seeing me was going to mess you up that badly?”

Mike looks down at his empty plate and doesn't answer right away. “If you hadn't remembered me at all,” he says very quietly, “it might have.”

Chuck stares, mind flicking from one point to the next. Mike lost the Cadets and everything he worked toward for years, fled to Motorcity, came (or was brought) back, and was made a PRT working for a complete dickhead, (and Chuck thinks he knows who, and it's terrifying). Utterly against his will, judging by the cuffs and everything.

It's terrifying to think, but--is Chuck all he's got left? A skinny, nervous techie with three weeks of current events and a gaping hole behind them. Whatever Mike is looking for in him, Chuck probably doesn't even have it anymore.

“God, bro,” he groans, rubbing his temples.

“Sorry, did I say too much? You okay?”

“I'm fine. You didn't--you're fine.”

There's a pause that stretches out as Mike clutches his drink and Chuck tries not to dwell on what Mike was doing in Motorcity, how long he spent there, whether his return was recent enough to have anything to do with that big battle where Kane’s newly-revealed daughter betrayed him, turning against Deluxe. That was only a little while before Chuck woke up in Medical. He doesn't know if he was a civilian casualty or if he was--up to something--and he’s been careful not to think about it, but god it's hard not to, especially when he thinks there might be some kind of intersection with whatever _Mike_ was up to... he wrenches his attention away from the increasingly painful whirl of thoughts before they carry him from _headache_ to _meltdown_.

Digits of pi, yeah. Stop thinking. Move on.

“I,” Mike says, and stops. Chuck looks up to see him playing with the lid to his drink, gnawing on his lip like he's fighting himself internally. “I know you think I'm a gladiator,” he says, low-voiced. “That would be a lot cooler.” Lips tight, he looks up to meet Chuck’s eyes. “I'm a ‘ _private asset_ ’. He can keep me to himself or loan me out to Red or some exec, if he wants. Nobody spars with me except Red, and that's… not really sparring.”

Chuck swallows and reaches across the table to put a hand on Mike’s. “I pretty much had all that figured, Mikey.”

Granted, he's been trying hard to pretend otherwise so everything Mike's been going through could stay safely theoretical. This smashes his denial into little splinters, and it's only his skill at avoiding topics of thought that lets him lock away the images of Mike being knocked around and pushed down and… abused. Chuck can't _afford_ to think about it, not just for his sake but for Mike's, because for Mike to have to comfort him out of _another_ freak-out brought on by the mere thought of Mike's situation would be _really_ fucking unfair.

He can't help glancing at Mike’s chest and bare arms, the green and purple and black bruises scattered over olive-brown. “The, um, gladiator disguise is pretty solid, though, good job there.” And what the hell is up with that, wonders a small, guilty voice at the back of his mind. If you got a chance to have sex with Mike, why the _fuck_ would you waste time hitting him?

Mike lets out a startled snort of laughter and twists his hand to hold onto Chuck’s. “I didn't mean to lie to you,” he starts, and Chuck cuts him off.

“Dude. No. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, okay? It sounds like your life is shh-mm, crummy right now, and if you want to tell me about it feel free, but if you don't? I'm not exactly in any position to point fingers. I know all about not talking about things.”

“That's kind of different, though.”

“I can't talk about certain things because they might hurt my head. You might not want to talk about things because they suck, and you're hurting.” Chuck squeezes Mike’s hand. “Pain is a constant, or to put it differently, life’s a pain in the butt all around.”

Chuck’s hoping for another laugh, but instead Mike twists his lips in an attempt at a smile that just looks sad. Dammit, Mikey. Fine, if he can't lighten the mood, he'll risk bringing it all the way down.

He takes a deep breath, tries really hard not to think about it because, yeah, no freak-out, no panic attack, and says, “Did you go from cadet straight to this, or did you--was there--something else in between?”

Mike's mouth opens and he hesitates. “There was, uh, definitely something in between.”

“I don't mean whatever you were doing,” Chuck says impatiently, “I mean,” he has to pause to breathe, because his heart is pounding. “I mean, _please tell me_ you didn't start this as a virgin.”

Mike looks so startled that Chuck knows the answer right away and lets out a long breath of relief, starting to relax. “No! Geez.” He stares for a moment, blinking. “Wow, that would've been _really_ messed up. Dang.”

“Okay,” Chuck says, sagging in his chair, and squeezes Mike’s hand again before pulling his away to rub over his face. “Okay, good, all right. Not that this is okay,” he adds quickly, “but just--”

“Dude, it's okay, I know what you mean. It… could've been worse,” Mike says, looking a little sick.

“It could always be worse,” Chuck says almost automatically, and stops himself because wow, not helpful. “Um. You wanna talk about something else?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mike says fervently. “Um. You said we could talk about--maybe doing more stuff--after we ate. So. We've eaten now. Can we… talk about it?”

Chuck licks his lips. “You still want to--” Well, no, that's a stupid question. The strange thing isn't that Mike _still_ wants to have sex with Chuck, but that he wanted to in the first place. Especially, um, considering… everything. “Okay, talking. You really want to do that kind of thing with me?”

Mike blinks at him. “Yeah, of course. The question is, do _you?_ ”

“Nnno, I don't think that is the question. I mean, _obviously_ I want, but seriously, dude, you--the stuff you put up with on a daily basis, and then you want to come here and--” Chuck is flailing his hands, aware that he's not exactly at his most coherent. “I'd think you'd want a _break_ from that!”

Mike stares, then actually stands up. Chuck watches, puzzled, as he moves a few steps away to lean back against the counter facing the table, narrow eyes fixed on Chuck. “This _is_ a break. That's not the same thing at _all_.”

He crosses his arms, which shows off his biceps, and actually there is a distressing amount of muscle on display right now. Even beat up and bruised, he still looks dangerous, all leashed tension and energy. The faintly pissed off expression only emphasizes it, and Chuck is pretty sure he should be feeling a lot more guilty and a lot less turned on by it.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean--I'm just trying to--” Chuck stops a second to put his scrambled thoughts in some kind of order and Mike cuts him off.

“Look, if you don't want me touching you, just tell me,” he says quietly. “I get it. If it was me, I'd probably think I was pretty unappealing too.”

Chuck’s mouth falls open and this is the worst time to be wordless, but it takes a long breath for him to find a response, which turns out to be, “What the _fuck?_ No, what braindead cretin said that? Just tell me, I'll glitch his screens out so bad he'll never be able to use them again! I'll fry all his circuits back to the stone-age--no one gets to say that to you! Why the _hell_ \--heck--would you believe that?”

Mike blinks at his vehemence and shrugs, dropping his eyes. “Lots of reasons.” He waves a hand at himself. “This isn't exactly an attractive look, and that's the least of the issues.”

“Okay, sure, you look like you've been kicked around and treated like crap, but uh. Bro. You're still kind of unfairly sexy.”

Mike glances up at him and away again, his smile uncertain. “Okay.”

“Mike, seriously, I have no idea why you think you wouldn't be appealing. I mean, you've always been all,” Chuck waves a hand vaguely, hoping his blush is subtle enough to be missed, “cool and strong and brave and--”

“Before,” Mike says. “Now I'm a failure twice over, and really messed up besides.” His voice is low and even, almost matter-of-fact.

Chuck’s standing before he thinks, stepping closer to Mike, crowding into his space, looking down the couple of inches into Mike’s startled eyes. “No. I know I don't know what you're talking about right now, but come back in a few months when you can tell me and I'll argue you out of it with specifics. You're no failure, Mikey; if you failed it's because you did everything possible and it didn't work because sometimes that's how things _go_. Sometimes you _can't_ win.”

It takes Mike’s eyes shifting on Chuck’s face before Chuck realizes he's rubbing his temple with one hand, and quickly stops. “And if you're messed up--” He pauses, biting his lips together, and turns to lean back on the counter next to Mike. “Welcome to the club, I guess. Couple days ago Anton came up from behind and startled me and I elbowed him in the gut so hard he almost threw up. Everyone got to hear me shriek like a storm siren.” Chuck grimaces, face hot. “Not like it's the first time they've heard it, but god.”

Mike throws an arm over Chuck’s shoulders, smiling a little. “Hey, I bet you're still the best programmer in here.”

“I'm not the best, that's Travis.”

Mike gives him an amused look. “Wonder if Travis would agree. I bet he'd say you're at least in the top five.”

Chuck nibbles on his lip, trying not to grin. “Maybe,” he mumbles.

“Thought so.”

“Anyway,” Chuck says pointedly, and tries to remember what he's saying. “Um. Of course I want you, anyone would want you. I just. Don't want you to feel like you have to do the same stuff for me that…”

“I don't,” Mike says when he trails off. His eyes are steady on Chuck’s. “I don't have to. I just really want to make you feel good.”

Chuck swallows and sort of sways over and Mike meets him halfway, kissing him eagerly enough that heat sweeps across Chuck’s whole body in a wave. He's still not sure _why_ Mike wants to do this, if it's just that Chuck is the only friend he's got or maybe that he hasn't had good sex for a while, (and obviously Chuck could be a clueless virgin and give Mike better than anyone else is bothering to), but Mike does seem very clear that he wants to. Even if Chuck thinks it could be unwise, he's not about to turn Mike down again--once was hard enough. He'll just have to stay alert for anything going wrong, which is pretty much his basic state of being, so no issue there.

The door opens. Mike jerks away from Chuck, eyes wide. Greg offers a vague smile and brushes past them to the fridge.

“You wanna get back to my cube?” Chuck says as Mike keeps staring at Greg’s back like he's going to turn around and--what? Smirk at them? Scold them? Chuck can't even guess what he's worried about, and Greg is the wrong guy to worry over in the first place. He spends all his time in his head. They could have been fucking over the table and he would only have noticed for sure if they'd blocked his path.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure,” Mike says, grabbing his drink. Chuck snags a couple of water bottles from the pack on the counter and leads the way.

By the noise level in the office, it seems like a number of people have finished their break and started on another round of sex. Considering the haste with which he stumbles into his own cube, still muted, and pulls Mike close, Chuck’s not about to point fingers. It's night, anyway, time to socialize and have sex and work at a much more relaxed pace.

Mike hasn't gotten any less skilled at kissing in the last two minutes, and it's not long at all before Chuck is hard and whimpering embarrassingly into Mike's mouth. Mike moans back and pulls away, eyes bright.

“You should take your clothes off so I can touch you.”

Chuck has no objections to this plan. He rips off his shirt and then thinks to haul out the pad he sleeps on, unrolling it on the side of the cubicle that's partly hidden from the doorway. Reaching to open his pants, he pauses and looks at Mike.

“You too, right?”

Mike shrugs and nods. “Not like there's much difference, in these,” he mutters, unfastening his tiny vest and shrugging it off, and Chuck wants to respond, has his mouth open to answer, but nothing comes out because he's caught and staring.

Mike is bruised all over, so Chuck was expecting more of the same. He wasn't expecting the bruises to get thicker, darker, around and over Mike’s nipples, and he wasn't expecting the clear ring of toothmarks around one.

Some people like that kind of thing. Mike _might_ be one of them, but Chuck is pretty sure no one asked him first.

Catching his expression, Mike blinks and looks down at his chest, then flushes and glances away. It looks like shame, except Chuck can't guess why, so he doesn't know what to say.

He tries anyway. Swallowing, he steps forward and puts a hand on Mike's shoulder. “Sh-geez, bro, when I said ‘chew-toy’ I didn't think it was _literal_.”

Mike snorts and twists his lips in a not-quite-smile. “That's Red,” he says, and looks at Chuck for a long few seconds. Whatever he sees is enough to make him relax some, shoulders sagging, and when he leans in and reaches up for a kiss, weirdly tentative, Chuck wraps his arms around Mike and kisses back hard.

It takes a while to be able to pull away again, breathing hard. “Right,” Chuck gasps, “clothes, getting distracted.”

Mike nods and opens his shorts, stepping over by the wall out of view from the doorway. Chuck gets his shoes and the rest of his clothes off to keep from staring hungrily at Mike, and drops everything in a blue and white pile of cloth. Then he sits down on his sleeping pad and Mike is there on his knees in front of him, naked and hard and leaning in to kiss him again.

Mike’s hands are on Chuck, stroking his face and neck, moving across his shoulders and down his chest as Chuck’s breath catches and he moans. Mike kisses him deep and sweet for a while before pulling back, and his soft smile makes Chuck flush with heat.

“God, you're so sexy,” Mike breathes. “I want to make you feel so good, Chuckles. Will you let me?”

What the fuck is there to say to that besides, “Yes. Ff-- _heck_ yes.” Chuck swallows hard. “Just tell me what to do for you; I don't want to mess up and hurt you.”

Mike pauses a second. “Let's leave that for later, okay? Just let me concentrate on you right now. Can we do that?” he adds, probably seeing the protest on Chuck’s face, and Chuck has to nod, can't argue with Mike, not with that pleading look in his eyes.

“Thanks,” Mike says, relieved, and Chuck is expecting another kiss when he leans in, but instead Mike noses along his jaw and kisses Chuck’s neck right under his ear, making him gasp. Then Mike opens his mouth and sucks gently, getting a ridiculous whimpering noise out of Chuck, who almost doesn't care because that feels _amazing_ holy shit. Mike works his way down one side of Chuck’s neck, then starts in on the other side, and Chuck moans and gasps and makes whining noises and desperately hopes Mike doesn't think he sounds dumb.

If Mike thinks that he definitely isn't showing it, though. He keeps sucking and nuzzling at Chuck’s neck all the way down to the collarbone, then lifts his head and smiles at Chuck, who's clinging to Mike’s shoulders.

“You okay, buddy?”

“Ahah, _yeah_ ,” Chuck manages.

Mike grins. “Good,” he says, and ducks down to put his mouth on a nipple. Chuck yelps and scrabbles at his shoulders. Mike plants a hand on Chuck’s chest and shoves gently.

“Lie down, dude. Let me work, okay?”

“Ohmygod,” Chuck whimpers, because that's _hot_ , and drops back onto his elbows, then lies back flat when his muscles start quivering because _Mike_ oh my _god_.

Mike strokes a hand down Chuck’s neck and runs fingertips back and forth along his collarbone while he sucks and licks and mouths Chuck’s nipples until Chuck gets so loud and desperate he crams his fist against his mouth to muffle the noise. Looking up, Mike catches his wrist and tugs.

“Hey, no. No one else can hear you, right? Don't worry about being loud.”

“‘m not--I don't--I'm not worried about anyone _else_ ,” Chuck says, panting.

Mike frowns for a moment, then blinks, eyes widening. “Oh. Right.” He laughs awkwardly. “Just me. You're worried I'll think you're, like, too loud or don't sound incredibly sexy or something. I forgot about that. Look, I think you sound amazing, okay? Don't try to be quiet for my sake, I _like_ the way you sound. It's really hot.” He licks his lips, gives Chuck a half-lidded look. “ _Really_ hot.”

Chuck moans a little at the thought that his stupid noises could maybe turn Mike on, and it's distracting enough that he can't quite put his finger on what puzzled him a second ago. He opens his hand from its fist and puts it on Mike’s shoulder. Smiling in satisfaction, Mike goes back to what he was doing and Chuck goes back to staring blindly at the ceiling and making embarrassing amounts of noise.

Chuck puts a hand on Mike's head after a while because his shoulder doesn't seem quite enough, pats his hair gently and feels him shiver.

“God,” Mike says against Chuck’s skin, “yeah, keep, please, I missed--please keep doing that.”

Chuck swallows. “No problem,” he says hoarsely. _I missed_ \--having someone stroke his hair? No, it sounded like more than that.

“Just don't--” Mike says, and stops. “Yeah, just keep, that's nice.”

“Don't what? Bro, you have to tell me so I don't screw up.”

Mike licks Chuck’s nipple and Chuck hisses and keeps waiting. “Don't pull,” Mike mutters after a minute.

“Mikey, I wouldn't pull your hair unless you asked me to,” Chuck points out, a little disturbed.

“You--” Mike starts, and goes quiet briefly. “Oh. You--right. You wouldn't.”

“You forget who you're with?” Chuck says gently, and Mike blinks up at him.

“Oh. Hah, no. I just--” He stops, shakes his head. “Sorry, we're good, don't worry about it.”

He moves on from Chuck’s nipples after that, moves his mouth and fingers over Chuck’s body, finding hot spots Chuck didn't know he had. Mike sucks at the hollow of one hipbone and Chuck arches off the floor, crying out. Mike just smiles at him contentedly like that's not weird at all, like he was expecting a reaction like that, and keeps going, and Chuck has to ask.

“Oh my god, Mikey, how are you so-- _oh god_ \--so good at this? The girls before were not this good!”

He's expecting some smug comment about innate talent, but instead Mike gives him another smile and says, “They probably were pretty good, they just didn't know you.”

Chuck frowns at him, about to say that Mike doesn't know him either, not like that, when it all clicks; the things Mike keeps almost saying and the way he hasn't done a single thing Chuck doesn't like, just keeps hitting all the right places without any trial and error. Considering the way Mike tends to do stuff, Chuck really would've expected him to move quicker, too, a couple of kisses and then a grab for Chuck’s dick. Except that--

“Oh my god, we were together,” Chuck says, staring. Part of him can't believe it, because--would that mean Mike really liked him, and wasn't just desperate for some kindness? But the rest of him is tallying up the pieces that didn't make sense before, slotting them into place one by one. This is why Mike looked devastated when Chuck only remembered him from years ago.

Mike isn't looking so good right now, either, frozen staring at Chuck in terror. It's a long moment before he lets out a shaky sigh and says, “Be careful, dude, don't think about it, okay?”

Chuck blinks, wondering why it would be dangerous to think about being with Mike, which is a really stupid question to even ask himself, because a bunch of possible answers immediately occur to him and he has to turn to primes before he gets a headache. “It's okay, it's--we probably shouldn't, you know, discuss it a lot, which means I can't ask you any of the questions I have now, oh my _god_ , Mikey, I have _so many_. But just thinking about _that_ doesn't hurt. Did, um, did anybody in charge know that we were--?”

Mike shakes his head. “No. He still doesn't know, just that we were friends.”

Chuck nods. “So that's probably why. Whatever I did to get a fever can't have had too much to do with sleeping with you, and no one knew about it to set it as a separate trigger. So it's sort of safe.”

Mike’s mouth opens and there's a startled pause. “Seriously?”

“Uh, more or less?” Chuck says cautiously.

He can't quite interpret the look that comes into Mike's eyes, but they're focused intently on Chuck’s face. Mike licks his lips, smiles a little, and leans down close to Chuck. “Okay. You wanted to know if I was a virgin when I started this,” he says in a low voice.

He's waiting for a response, so Chuck says in some bewilderment, “Yeah?”

Mike grins and says, “I wasn't, because I gave my virginity to you.”

Chuck’s jaw drops. “Oh my god,” he says faintly. He's hot all over suddenly, and he has to bite back a moan because _oh_. That's… unexpected. And really sexy. Especially because, considering everything he knows about Mike, that probably means he _does_ really like Chuck. Or at least, he did.

"Um.” Chuck swallows. “Did we--were we still together when I got the fever, or--?”

Mike hesitates, chewing on his lip. “Yeah,” he says. “But, uh, we should maybe not--”

“Talk about it much more, yeah, I know, you're right.” Chuck struggles with himself before blurting out, “Just--did we work okay? Was I a good boyfriend?”

Mike's face twists and he takes a deep breath before he can manage a half-smile. “Yeah, Chuckles. We worked great, and you're the best boyfriend. You would--no, dang it, I can't say that--you were great. You are great.”

Partly to stop himself wondering what Mike couldn't say and partly in relief, Chuck reaches up to kiss him. When they pull apart again, Chuck says, “So of course you know what I like, you already figured it all out. That is totally unfair! I ought to know just as much about you, and here I am stuck with sick leave.”

Mike opens his mouth and closes it again like he thought better of what he was about to say. “I'm just happy to touch you again,” he says. “I missed this so much, dude, you have no idea.”

Reminded of the last thing he said he missed, Chuck runs a hand through Mike's hair, watching the way Mike’s eyelashes flutter and his face relaxes. “So why would I pull your hair, if you don't--” oh. “You used to like that.”

Mike winces and drops his forehead to Chuck’s shoulder. “I used to like things… a little rough, yeah.”

And for some reason that no longer appeals these days. “Gotcha,” Chuck says, and keeps stroking his hair.

Chuck’s dick isn't sure what the hell’s going on at this point, and kind of really wants Mike to go back to what he was doing so they can get somewhere, but Chuck also doesn't want to push him. At all. He's obviously getting plenty of that on a daily basis, he doesn't need it from Chuck too.

Mike presses a kiss to Chuck’s chest, looks up and smiles. It's a good attempt, only a little shadow in his eyes, quickly hidden. “Geez, you got me all distracted. Let's see, where was I?”

“About to get me off?” Chuck says hopefully, and Mike laughs aloud, startled.

“Oh my _god_ you're cute! Yeah, that's next.” He licks a nipple idly and Chuck squeaks. Mike grins slow and wicked and spends the next eternal few minutes playing with Chuck’s nipples again as Chuck groans and writhes and swears breathlessly at him.

“ _Nngh_ , Mikey I swear if you don't-- _ahahh--_ do something, I, I'm gonna-- _nnh--_ ”

“Okay,” Mike says finally, grinning up at him. “Okay, buddy, I can help you out with that.” He hesitates. “With--can I--” He licks his palm and wraps his hand around Chuck’s dick, making Chuck gasp, hips jolting up into the touch. “Is this okay?”

“Yes, god yes,” Chuck groans. “Why would it not be okay, just--” Just _move_ , he's about to say, when Mike does. Chuck makes a choked noise and grabs for Mike's shoulder just to have something to hang onto. Mike strokes him quick and firm, just gentle enough and just slow enough to be _really_ fucking good.

Chuck loses track for a while, making noise and clinging to Mike and bucking into his touch as everything in him winds tighter and hotter and higher. By the time it reaches the breaking point, Mike is murmuring, “That's it, babe, come on--god, you look so good like this. You sound so good, you're so sexy--” and that's it, that's all Chuck can take before he's coming apart at the seams, shaking, falling, gone.

When he opens his eyes again, Mike is watching him with a soft smile.

“Good?” Mike says.

“Oh my god, Mikey,” Chuck says in a weak voice. “Like you even have to ask.”

Mike laughs a little. “Still good to hear.”

“God, you--c’mere,” Chuck says, and tugs Mike into a slightly dazed kiss. After a few minutes to recover, he pulls himself together enough to get cleaned up, bringing back with him the box of Deluxe Hygienic Wipes (which are pretty good, if definitely not a substitute for a shower no matter what Rich thinks).

“Okay,” Chuck says, sitting down again with his knee brushing Mike's hip. “You had your turn, now I get to touch you, right?”

Mike nods. “Whatever you want.” He pauses. “Or, whatever I can do.”

Chuck frowns. “Bro, you've got it backwards. This is about what I can do for you. So, you want to lie down?”

Mike hesitates again, gaze sliding away from Chuck’s, then moves to obey, except it was a suggestion, not an order. Chuck catches his shoulder and Mike’s eyes widen, darting back to his face.

“You don't have to,” Chuck says as calmly as he can. “How about you tell me what you want?”

Mike lets out a breath, looking down. He's quiet a moment, then nods and raises his head to meet Chuck’s gaze. “I want--okay. I don't know if I--if it'll work, but I want to try. I want you to take me.”

Chuck’s face goes hot even though that could mean two different things, because thinking about doing either one of them with Mike is--okay, wow, definitely no complaints! Except about Mike’s too-clean ex-cadet language, which isn't really helpful for clarity here.

“Take you,” he says carefully, “as in, you want to, uh, top me, or--”

“I want you in me,” Mike says.

Chuck’s mouth drops open. Partly because Mike can't even say the word ‘fuck’, so _how_ did he make that sound so bizarrely sexy? And partly because--Mike likes that? And wants Chuck to do that with him? Seriously? Holy _fuck_. (Does that mean they've done that before? Like, is it a thing for them, or new still, or--stop thinking about it.)

Then the rest of it catches up to him and he swallows. Considering--everything--about Mike’s situation, it could be a really bad idea. Just as clearly, Mike knows that and isn't going to let it stop him.

“You're sure,” Chuck says, aware of how pointless it is to ask. Mike is always sure, even when he's getting ready to do something reckless and stupid. No, especially then.

“Yeah,” Mike says, jaw set.

Chuck studies him for a slow breath. He reaches out and runs his hand over Mike’s hair and Mike relaxes some, leans toward him, head tilting into Chuck’s touch. There's no point in arguing; Chuck will just have to be careful.

“Okay,” he says, stroking Mike’s hair. “We can do that.”

He's torn between _shit, this is a terrible idea_ and _holy SHIT Mike wants me to fuck him_ , and getting his brain to stop shrieking about both at once isn't easy. He distracts it by leaning in for a kiss, both hands sliding into Mike’s shaggy hair. Mike sighs against him and strokes a thumb along Chuck’s jaw.

Eventually Chuck pulls back, breathing harder, and glances down. Mike is looking pretty interested in things, but it's going to be a few minutes before Chuck can catch up to him. He wants to use the time wisely.

He can do this. It's not like he's a virgin--hell, he's even had sex with Mike before, a lot, probably, even if he can't remember any of it--ow, don't think about that. Somehow none of it makes him feel any more secure in his ability to make Mike feel good, except in the most basic way, which is not what Chuck is going for.

Okay, well, he has to try. Maybe if he tries the same things Mike did for him?

Chuck puts his hands back in Mike's hair and kisses the side of his neck just under his jaw. Mike tilts his head to give better access, but the small noises he makes as Chuck moves down his neck sound more mild and pleased than turned on. Reaching his collarbone, Chuck kisses and sucks gently and gets nothing more than a vaguely contented sigh.

It's frustrating and embarrassing and there's a little voice at the back of Chuck’s brain mocking him for being terrible at this. Reminding it that Mike has an advantage that Chuck is missing does surprisingly little to help.

Still, he can't give up yet. Moving down Mike’s chest, he feels the muscles under his hands tighten when Chuck nears one nipple, hears Mike’s breathing go quick and shallow, anxious. Mike doesn't say anything, though.

Chuck sighs, close enough that he's breathing over the bruised nub, and says, “Hey bro, you wanna see a trick? Say stop.”

There's a pause before Mike says, “Huh?”

“Say stop, Mikey.”

The pause stretches longer this time. Chuck doesn't move except to flick his eyes up to Mike’s face, which is wide-eyed and uncertain. “Stop,” Mike finally says in a near whisper.

Chuck immediately pulls his head back and straightens up, moving his hands to rest lightly on Mike’s shoulders, stroking gently. Mike’s eyes are still wide and he's staring at Chuck.

“Okay?” Chuck says. “You got that?”

Mike swallows, closes his eyes and nods, shoulders slumping as the tension drains out of him.

“Good,” Chuck says. “You okay?”

Mike reaches for him, pulling him in for a desperate kiss, then wraps his arms around Chuck and clings.

Chuck is a little bewildered by the strength of the reaction. He'd expected a pleased or relieved smile, maybe a startled look first. This seems like a little much. Was Mike that freaked out? Or did he actually think Chuck wouldn't stop?

“Yeah,” Mike says huskily after a minute. “I'm okay. Sorry, you kinda… caught me off guard there.”

“Is that why you didn't say to stop before I prompted you?”

Mike pulls away enough to blink at Chuck. “You didn't do anything that hurt. I was waiting to see if it would.”

Chuck’s eyebrows feel like they hit his hairline. “Mikey, were you or were you not kind of freaked out by the prospect of me touching your nipples?”

“I--maybe a little, yeah, but it wasn't important, and I--”

A little, right, that's why he practically stopped breathing. “Mike!” Chuck says, glaring. “That's important!”

Mike bites his lip and says, quickly before Chuck can cut him off again, “I wanted to see if you could make it feel good again. Maybe I was a little, y’know, unsure, but it was worth it, I wanted to know.”

Chuck’s breath catches in his throat and he has to swallow before he can speak again. “Oh. Okay. I'll try, but bro, you gotta tell me if--anything, even if you just need a minute, I'll stop, I'll wait, okay? _Tell_ me.”

“I will! I--I will, sorry, I just… yeah.”

“Okay,” Chuck says, nerving up. “Okay, tell me how this feels.” He leans down to one purple-bruised nipple and licks it as gently as possible. Then he breathes on it and Mike makes a tiny soft noise.

“Good?” Chuck asks.

“Don't stop,” Mike says, which Chuck translates to ‘not sure yet’.

He doesn't stop. Keeping his tongue soft, he licks and breathes and licks some more and Mike holds very still and keeps breathing.

“Maybe,” Mike says cautiously after a minute, “try sucking?”

Chuck does, gently and carefully.

Mike's head tips back. “Oh,” he breathes.

“Doesn't hurt?” Chuck says, just checking.

Mike hesitates. “Only a little. It's not--I don't care,” he says, but there's something about his expression--

Chuck sucks again, watching Mike’s face as best he can from this angle, and there's no flinch, no sign he's ignoring discomfort. As Chuck keeps going, Mike’s hips twitch, and yeah, that's pretty clear.

“You like it,” he says, pulling back enough to see Mike clearly. “It hurts a little, but you like that.”

Mike’s eyes widen and his shoulders draw tight again. “...Yeah. Is that… okay?”

“Yeah,” Chuck says, frowning at him, and goes back to licking and sucking to make Mike let out little gasping noises.

“I like it with _you_ ,” Mike says softly. “I know you're not gonna give me more than I can handle.”

Chuck closes his eyes and takes a long breath through his nose to stay calm and doesn't, does not think about it. He moves to the other nipple and works on it a while until Mike’s hips are jerking and shivering.

“Please,” Mike whispers finally, like he's not sure he's allowed to ask.

Chuck licks one last time and moves up to kiss Mike, stroking down his back. When Mike nips Chuck’s lip, Chuck whimpers and pulls away, panting.

“Okay, you still wanna do this?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, holding Chuck’s gaze. “I do. Please.”

“Okay,” Chuck says, voice sliding high. “We can totally do that, I just, um, don't actually know--I mean, I haven't--I'm not gonna know what I'm doing,” he finishes in a mumble, face hot.

Mike breaks into a smile and leans in to kiss him brief and sweet. “That's okay, dude, I'll be doing all the work anyway. If, um, if that's okay.”

“Mikey,” Chuck says fervently, “whatever you want is fine by me. Especially if it makes it better for you.”

Mike leans over to grab his shorts and pulls a condom and a packet of lube out of a small pocket. Chuck breathes carefully as Mike gets the condom on him and slicks it up, then frowns when he doesn't follow this with any prep for himself. Maybe Chuck doesn't remember doing this before, but he's seen enough porn smuggled up from ground floor to know a little about it.

“Shouldn't you, uh…” he says, gesturing at the lube and Mike.

“Don't need it,” Mike says shortly. “Lie down and I'll get on you.”

Chuck hesitates. “Do you not want me touching you there?” Why Mike is already stretched and ready is one more thing Chuck can't afford to think about.

“What?” Mike blinks at him. “No, I--you can, if you want, I just--I'm ready, it's okay.”

The thing is, if Mike wasn't sure someone touching his nipples could feel good anymore, Chuck is pretty sure there's other spots that could use the same kind of gentle attention. He practically memorized this one vid that starts off with a lot of teasing, and there's one thing he thinks could be good.

“I want to try something,” he says, and licks dry lips. His eyes are too wide and he has to keep remembering to breathe more slowly, and when Mike just nods silently it really doesn't help. Chuck grabs his elbow. “Tell me no if you don't want to.”

“I don't know yet,” Mike says, shrugging one shoulder. “Try it and we'll see.” He leans back on his elbows and bends his knees, pulls his feet up to either side, eyes fixed on Chuck’s face.

It's really dumb that Chuck is blushing again, but yeah, he is, because Mike is laid out in front of him, completely exposed, all his most delicate bits right there, available. Chuck swallows, reaches out and strokes a finger down Mike's darkly flushed hard-on, watches his stomach muscles jump. The finger traces gently over Mike’s balls, slips behind them, presses against his perineum in what should be the right spot, bringing a soft startled noise from Mike. Yeah, Chuck likes that spot himself.

Chuck grabs the packet of lube, dabs two fingertips in it, and slides them down to where Mike was probably expecting them in the first place, judging by the tension in his muscles. Chuck believes him that he wants to try this, wants Chuck in him, but that doesn't mean Mike’s not scared, even if he won't really acknowledge it.

Chuck looks up to meet Mike’s eyes and holds them, sliding his fingers around and around and over and never pressing inside. Mike’s lips part. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he shivers and relaxes, the tension in him changing to something warmer, easier.

“God, Chuck,” he says unsteadily, “I thought you said you didn't know what you were doing.”

“I don't!” Chuck protests. “There's plenty of stuff you can't learn from porn.”

Mike’s eyes widen and he laughs a little. “I--oh my god. You're amazing.”

Chuck blushes and smiles back, stroking the inside of Mike’s thigh with his free hand. With the other hand he keeps changing the rhythm and pattern his fingertips make, knowing from experimenting on himself that the skin goes sort of numb to the sensation otherwise.

Mike’s head tips back and he makes a husky noise. “Hey, buddy. You tried it, and I'd say it's a success. You want to move on?”

Chuck grins. “Someone getting impatient?”

Mike's head snaps up to stare. “...Yeah,” he says, breathless and starting to smile. “As usual, when you go so darn _slow_ , Chuckles.”

Chuck flinches a little, confused, and starts to pull his hands away, and Mike grabs one wrist.

“No!” Mike says. “That wasn't--sorry.” He grimaces. “It's just--you always tease me, spend a long time on it cuz you like driving me crazy, and then you make fun of me for being impatient when you're the one--anyway. I didn't mean--sorry. Um. You ready?”

Oh. It was an in-joke, not a complaint. Chuck relaxes and nods.

Mike nudges him to lie down on his back, then straddles him. Chuck focuses on breathing without hyperventilating as Mike kneels up and slowly slides down on him, because holy shit, he's about to fuck Mike Chilton. Chuck, who is nobody, some skinny, unnoticeable techie, somehow gets to fuck the guy who was Kane Co’s golden boy. Sure Mike's fallen hard from favor now, but he's still the same amazing guy, and even with all the bruises he's way more gorgeous than the awkward half-grown teenager Chuck remembers.

And _fuck_ he feels good on Chuck’s dick. It takes concentration not to thrust up immediately, but Chuck’s not messing this up, he's not going to push faster than Mike wants to go.

Sitting down all the way, Mike makes a quiet noise and breathes out, shoulders slumping as he relaxes. He smiles at Chuck and moves the hand on Chuck’s chest to tweak a nipple, making Chuck yelp and his hips twitch up involuntarily. Mike catches his breath.

“Yeah,” he says in a husky voice. “God, Chuck.” He starts to move, and Chuck can only cling to Mike’s hips and make a lot of noise while Mike rides him.

“ _God_ , you feel good, Chuckles,” Mike pants. “Missed this so much. Missed _you_ so much. I was so scared--but you're okay.” His eyes are fixed on Chuck’s face, hungry, feasting on the sight of him. “You're okay. You're _amazing_.”

Chuck wants to say something back, like how Mike is the amazing one, or how good he feels, too, _fuck_ , but eloquence during sex isn't his strong suit. All he manages is “Mikey,” and a high moan.

Mike moans back so softly it's almost a whisper. It's hot because it's Mike, but it'd be even hotter if it was louder. If he's still talking easily and not making much noise otherwise, how good can Chuck really be making him feel?

In an effort to do better, Chuck puts a hand around Mike’s dick and starts to stroke. Mike makes a shocked noise and bucks into the touch, his movement hitching as he stares at Chuck. Chuck tries to make it good, rubbing his thumb under the head, moving in time with Mike, and in reaction Mike shudders all over and moves faster.

Chuck slides his thumb over the tip and Mike lets out a considerably louder moan, then bites his lip, eyes flickering around the walls of the cube before he blinks and relaxes again. He's smiling a little and blushing at the same time.

“Forget about the sound-canceling?” Chuck gasps. Half laughing, he adds, “I thought you were the one telling me to go ahead and be loud, bro.”

“I mean, yeah,” Mike says, breathless, “but it's not really fair to bug me about it, dude! We're still surrounded by people, even if we can't hear them, and you may be used to this but I'm _really_ not.”

“Holy shit--oh, sorry--you're so _adorable_ ,” Chuck says, and tries to hold on to himself, but everything feels really good, and Mike is only hotter all flustered and sweaty and flushed, and--yeah, Chuck’s not gonna last much longer. “I--I'm getting--is it--”

“Yeah, yeah yeah,” Mike says, panting open-mouthed. “Go ahead and come, Chuckles, it's all good, I want you to. You're so hot, I--” he breaks into a moan and cuts it off, biting his lip.

Chuck groans aloud as everything pulls taut and sweet and bright. He has just enough sense to let go of Mike’s dick before the tension releases, snaps through him, and he's clawing at the sleeping pad under him, hips thrusting in the tidal surge of pleasure, making some kind of sound he can't really hear through the rushing in his ears.

After a brief, blissful eternity, he opens his eyes to find Mike breathing raggedly, chewing on his lip and smiling as he watches Chuck’s face. His hand on himself is moving at a speed Chuck is pretty sure can't be fast enough, and even as Chuck watches it slows and stops entirely.

“Mikey?”

Mike gnaws on his lip some more. “I--can you…”

Chuck waits, but he just shakes his head after a moment like he's pushing something away and his hand starts moving again. Chuck frowns a little in his post-orgasmic haze.

“Can I what, bro? I'll do whatever you want, but you gotta tell me what it is.”

Mike takes a breath and goes still, eyes caught on his face, then lifts off of Chuck and swings his leg over to kneel beside him. Chuck is reluctantly distracted by dealing with the condom before things get any stickier than necessary, but as soon as he sits down again he looks expectantly at Mike.

“Can you--your fingers. In me,” Mike says kind of awkwardly, and Chuck is torn between hoping Mike was better at asking for things when they were together before and wondering how badly he’s likely to screw this up. He doesn't think he's resented the fact of fevers and sick leave this much in a long time.

“Okay sure,” he squeaks, and takes a breath. “Um, you still gotta tell me what to do, though, because uh--”

“Yeah,” Mike says, “no problem, I can--are you sure, buddy? You don't have to.”

Chuck blinks at him. “I just had my dick in you. Why wouldn't I put my fingers there? My dick’s a lot more delicate.”

Mike’s mouth drops open and he lets out a startled huff of a laugh, then snickers for a while. “Oh my god. You're the best, you know that?” he says softly, eyes warm on Chuck’s.

Chuck swallows and leans in to kiss him. Mike hums and moans quietly into his mouth. Chuck brushes his fingertips over Mike’s dick and Mike jerks out of the kiss to gasp.

“Okay,” Chuck says, grinning a little. “So.”

Mike breathes deep and leans back on his elbows, pulling his feet in and apart again. “Um. Two.”

Chuck grabs the discarded packet of lube and squeezes out the remnants, which are enough to coat his middle two fingers. “Okay…”

“Turn your palm up,” Mike says. “Okay, and--” he nods to go ahead and Chuck slides his fingers partway in smooth and easy. “Farther,” Mike murmurs. “Nnh. No, don't pull back, stay--yeah. Now rub your fingertips up-- _mmh!_ Like that,” he says breathlessly.

Chuck does, and again, more, faster and with more certainty as Mike’s head tips back and his body shudders. He's so gorgeous, and Chuck is the one making him feel like this, Chuck is the one he wants (really actually wants, it's not just convenience or loneliness, Chuck was his _boyfriend_ ).

“Chuck,” Mike says unsteadily. “Oh my god.”

Chuck licks his lips, decides Mike probably won't mind, and leans down to get his mouth on Mike’s dick again, because Mike’s ignoring it and Chuck isn't sure he's got the coordination right now to stroke with his free hand and rub with the other. Judging by the cry that comes out of him, Mike doesn't mind at all.

“ _God_ , Chuck, I--” he gasps, and starts to shake. Chuck curls his tongue around and sucks a few times and that's all Mike needs to come, hips twitching up into Chuck’s mouth so he has to jerk his head back. He keeps his fingers moving, puts his other hand on Mike's dick to help him through it, and only stops when Mike gives one last shudder and goes still and limp. Eyes closed, he's lying on his back, since his elbows went out from under him mid-orgasm.

Chuck pulls his fingers out of Mike and grabs a wipe to clean them off, then swabs off Mike as well. Mike jerks a little at the touch, eyes snapping open, but then he smiles at Chuck and relaxes.

“You okay, dude?” Chuck asks, tossing the wipe in the trash.

“Yeah,” Mike says, quiet and slow like he's still a little pleasure-dazed. He pushes himself up to sit, sways once, and slumps against Chuck, wrapping both arms around him almost fiercely.

Startled, Chuck hugs him back, warmth mingling with concern. “You sure?”

“‘m _fine_ ,” Mike says. “Just… can we do this? For a minute?”

“Yeah, Mikey,” Chuck says softly. “As long as you want.”

Mike’s arms tighten to a nearly painful degree, then loosen again. They sit quietly, holding each other, Mike's head resting on Chuck’s shoulder. It lasts a lot longer than a minute, but Chuck is perfectly content with that.


	3. Chapter 3

Mike's grip loosens eventually and the arm across Chuck’s chest drops, the hand falling to his thigh. Chuck straightens a bit, but Mike doesn't raise his head from Chuck’s shoulder.

“Missed you so much,” Mike says in a low voice. “I was so scared he was gonna--oh. I shouldn't be talking about it. Sorry.”

“You didn't say anything bad, bro, it's okay.” Chuck is pretty good at not trying to fill in what people are leaving unsaid around him by now. Well. Sort of good. Sometimes. Better than he was, anyway. It's still best to keep his mind distracted so he can't go worrying at puzzles. “Um. How long has it been since you last saw me?”

Now Mike pulls back and meets his eyes, hesitating. “Is that safe to answer?”

Chuck frowns. “It should be, yeah. If you're worried about it, don't give me an exact date or anything.”

Mike nods. “A little over a month,” he says.

That's awfully close to three weeks, which is an interesting coincidence that Chuck is not going to think about, especially after saying it would be safe for Mike to answer. It's also very near the date of Kane’s daughter's rebellion, but that's not proof that Mike was involved--

“How long have you been a PRT?” he says abruptly.

Mike's eyes widen and he rolls his lips in and bites them instead of answering.

“I'm guessing about a month,” Chuck says. “And stop worrying, I'm not going to try to figure out why, but-- _geez_ , bro. I was afraid it'd been, like, a _year_.”

Mike’s mouth falls open. “Holy crap, _no_.”

Chuck sighs and pulls Mike close for another hug, just to reassure himself Mike hasn't become a year's worth of messed up in the last half-minute. He doesn't need to get any more messed up than he already is.

He did something that pissed off Kane so much that he had Mike reclassified as a PRT--it pretty much had to be Kane, anyone else would have to run it by him for permission and no one would dare suggest that for an ex-cadet. That also solidifies Chuck’s guess about whose ‘private asset’ Mike is now. If that was the kind of punishment Kane thought was appropriate, he was probably taking a… personal interest.

And of course if he's that angry at Mike, that certainly explains all the bruises, Chuck thinks sort of numbly, and does his best to stop thinking about that as well so he won't freak out again. He swallows. “Rough month, huh.”

Mike laughs a little. “Yeah. You could definitely say that,” he mumbles, head on Chuck’s shoulder again. “This is nice, though.” He sighs. “Really nice. Missed you.”

His voice is slow, almost slurring a little, and Chuck realizes with a guilty start that he sounds tired. Of course he's tired, he's probably exhausted; non-tech people actually sleep during the small hours of the morning. “Shi--crap, I'm sorry, dude, you're falling asleep and I didn't even--go on and lie down, okay, I'll grab you my blanket.”

“Nnh,” Mike says, not letting go of him. “Don't wanna sleep, wanna… be here with you. Gotta be awake to hang out.”

“Mikey, you're practically asleep already,” Chuck points out. “Just get some rest, I'll wake you before you have to go.”

Mike straightens up at that and narrows his eyes. “Maybe I should just take one of your stim tabs.” He shakes his head, blinking hard as if to wake himself up. “Chuckles, I--I don't know when I'll see you again. I don't want to miss any of it.”

Chuck bites his lip hard enough to hurt. On the one hand, that's an upsetting thought. On the other, Mike taking a stim tab is a terrible idea for multiple reasons, only one of which is that considering his circumstances, he definitely needs the rest. Also, if he's being drugged at all frequently, he could easily have something still in his system that would interact badly with the stimulant.

On the third, possibly holographic hand, there's something a lot more important to discuss that Chuck was reminded of by the thought of not seeing Mike again. He has no idea how to broach the topic, and he's going to have to anyway. Now is not the ideal time, but if he waits it won't happen.

Despite the dead silence around them, swallowing their words before they pass the cubicle walls, Chuck keeps his voice low. Some things you just don't say loudly.

“I think,” he says, “you need to get to the ground floor.”

There's a second of confusion on Mike’s face before he remembers the slang and his eyes go round. He stares at Chuck and answers just as quietly. “I'm. Definitely not going to argue with that, but. I'd have trouble even getting out of this building. It's not easy to move fast with your hands behind your back.”

Chuck nods. The cuffs are definitely an issue that will have to be dealt with, but they're not as important as Mike being willing to go to Motorcity in the first place. “And there's all the doors that need swipe cards, too,” he says. “And the security cameras.” The doors, at least, are easy enough to hack, so getting them all to open at the right time is completely doable. Chuck’s not the guy to ask about the cameras and the rest of the planning, but he knows who is.

Mike’s wide eyes are still fixed on Chuck’s face. “Oh my god, dude, should you even be thinking about this?”

Chuck shrugs. “It's not like I'm going _myself_ ,” he says, mentally reciting pi, “and helping you go? No one knew to set that as a trigger, Mikey. Whatever I was doing, it wasn't helping people change floors.”

Mike looks stricken, and then his face goes hard. “If you can't come, I'm not leaving.”

Chuck knew this wasn't going to be easy, but that doesn't help him feel any less frantic about Mike’s resistance. “Mike! I'm fine, okay? You're not! Kane’s not going to let up. You've got to get away from him!”

Mike's lips tighten at the name, but he doesn't seem surprised to hear it from Chuck, like he forgot Chuck didn't already know. “If I leave, he'll know who helped me,” he says grimly. “I'm not leaving you behind in danger.”

“I won't be,” Chuck says, relaxing slightly. This objection he can deal with. “First of all, I'm only going to be able to help a certain amount, most of the coordination is going to be up to someone else after I ask for help. Second, I know how to hack things without leaving a trail, dude, I'm not an idiot. And third…” Stopping, he forces himself to take a breath and let it out. “Obviously it'll be less suspicious if it's not immediately after this visit. So, like…” He grimaces. “You think you can make it another week?”

Mike shakes his head impatiently. “I can make it as long as I need to, Chuck, that's not the point. The point is, he'll blame you even if there's no proof it was you! He knows we're friends, he knows you're a good programmer--” He lowers his voice. “He could have you _killed_. I'm not taking that risk.”

Chuck’s mouth opens and closes again. He knew Kane was angry at Mike, wanted to punish him harshly, but that he'd be so enraged over Mike's escape as to execute the person responsible--that's. It's. Not a thought Chuck was ready for, or can really handle right now. His heart is speeding faster, beating in his throat as his chest tightens, because there's nothing he can do to protect himself against Kane, if the man decides he wants Chuck dead that's what's going to happen. There's no escape, Kane’s word is law, he won't give a damn how much productivity the department loses.

Chuck’s eyes are too wide, he's breathing way too fast, and if there was ever a good reason for a panic attack, this is one, but he can't let it have him, not right now, he _can't_. Mike needs him.

“Hey, don't,” Mike says, putting a cautious hand on his shoulder. “Is this the fever thing or the other one? The other one, right, you don't look like it hurts--you're okay, buddy, you're safe, okay? Don't--crap, what did he say about breathing…”

Breathing, yes. There's got to be a way to do this that won't get anyone killed, and Chuck won't find it if he can't think. He swallows hard and concentrates on slowing down his breathing, evening it out while he focuses on counting primes, eyes closed. Anxiety and brain burn have a lot in common sometimes.

“You okay, dude?” Mike says when he opens his eyes. “What's the breathing thing that guy did for you? I can't remember, sorry.”

Chuck blinks at the apology, heart reluctantly resuming a slower pace as he keeps breathing slow and careful. “It's just, counting the length of breaths, short, then longer, to get you to slow down. You don't have to worry about it, though, I can--”

“Chuckles, I know, but I ought to know how to do it for you. I--I would've helped you before if I'd known.” Mike watches him for a moment, lip caught in his teeth. “You okay now?”

Chuck nods, starting to go over the problem again. There's got to be some way he can help Mike without implicating himself--no, it's got to be tighter than that, Kane doesn't even need any evidence to sentence him.

“Okay. Good.” Mike sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Don't get me wrong, buddy, I'd love to get out of here, but I'm not risking you. Let's just--talk about something else, okay?”

Coming back from his thoughts with a jolt, Chuck glares. “Mike, no. Look, I'm not interested in taking the fall any more than you want me to do it, but I can't deal with you being stuck like this! There's got to be a way--” He stops, frowning at nothing. “Huh,” he says. “What if Kane had proof that I _couldn't_ have done it? Proof he'd believe?”

Taken aback, Mike frowns. “Proof like what?”

Chuck waves a hand. “Not important, I can arrange it. He'll believe it, Mikey, he won't bother with me. He won't have anyone to blame. Would you agree to go then?”

Mike hesitates, looking unhappy. “That sounds way too easy. Are you sure it'll work, dude?”

“Completely certain,” Chuck says honestly.

Mike studies his face and nods slowly. “Even if you're right--I don't want to leave you up here.”

“That's the part we don't have a choice about,” Chuck says. “Unless you want me getting stuck in a feedback loop, I have to play things safe for the next few months.” His temples are tight and threatening just from the way he's been edging around the thought.

Mike's expression changes. “For the next few months,” he says, “but after that?”

“Well _yes_ , when I get off sick leave, a lot could change,” Chuck says, rolling his eyes, “but it's all gonna have to wait until my brain's not trying to kill me!” He fixes his thoughts as firmly as he can on primes, trying to avoid thinking about what he just agreed to in not so many words, but a throb of pain goes through his head anyway, the thought of fleeing to Motorcity too terrifying and riveting to dismiss. He _could_ run away when he's off sick leave, though he's not sure he'd want to. He can't keep from thinking about it, what it might be like there, if he could survive in Motorcity with Mike... As the pain rapidly scales up, making him gasp and go rigid, he thinks this is how people burn out--

“Crap, no, come on, buddy,” Mike's voice says, and sudden pleasure spikes through Chuck, jolting his thoughts thankfully off track and making him moan in startlement.

Oh. Mike is sucking on Chuck’s nipple, one hand running gentle fingertips over his soft dick, which twitches with interest.

“Oh my god,” Chuck whimpers. He kind of wants to laugh and kind of wants to melt into a confused, pleased puddle that Mike likes this so much it was the first distraction he could think of.

“Sorry,” Mike says against his skin. “I shouldn't have--I'll stop asking. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Chuck says breathlessly. “Suddenly finding it easy not to think, period.”

“Good,” Mike says, and sucks again. He pulls away again after a minute, though. “Chuck…” He bites his lip. “Even if _you_ stay safe, what about whoever helps you? Kane’s going to be looking for someone to blame, and I don't want to get any of your friends in trouble or worse. I won't risk anyone else's life.”

“You won't be,” Chuck says. This is another issue he's sure about. “Our advantage is that he has no idea what we can do. Techies are beneath his notice, so all he knows is that we're weirdos who get our work done. Once he realizes it can't be me, he's not going to check to see if I've got friends who did it for me--techies don't have friends. We're all socially inept nerds who have no lives outside work. Not to mention, he doesn't think most of us even have the ability to do the hacking this is going to take. We're competent, sure, but it's not like we're geniuses.”

Mike looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or frown, eyes wide on Chuck. “You really think he won't just... look around and figure out who it has to be?”

Chuck takes a deep breath. “Mike. You were down there, on ground floor.” Mike's eyes widen in horror and Chuck keeps talking. “I don't know how long, but if you were there for more than a day or two, I _know_ you made friends and allies. I'm pretty sure he knows that, and that's where he's going to look to explain how you left. Not his own tech department.”

“Okay. You're right, that makes sense.” Mike rubs knuckles back and forth over his forehead, pushing away tension. “God, Chuckles, don't scare me like that.”

“Sorry.” Chuck leans forward and kisses him apologetically. The apology in it goes away pretty quick, though. Mike responds eagerly, and a minute later he's in Chuck’s lap, their hardening dicks rubbing together. Chuck vaguely remembers he had reservations about more sex, because Mike obviously needs sleep, but he also obviously needs this, so first things first.

“Later,” he gasps against Mike’s mouth, “we'll figure out the timing and stuff.”

“Right, yeah,” Mike says, nipping Chuck’s lip. “When I'm done ravishing you.”

Chuck lets out a startled bark of laughter. “Dude, you couldn't ravish someone if you tried! You're way too nice.”

“Oh, I'd be nice,” Mike says in his ear, voice a sudden, velvety purr Chuck would never have guessed he could make. “I'd be nice and thorough, working you over until you couldn't think anymore. You'd be begging by the time I finished with you. What do you think, Chuckles? You think that'd count?”

Chuck lets out a high, shivery noise that's not even close to words. “Oh my god, Mikey,” he manages eventually, breathless.

“Yeah,” Mike says, “I think so too.”

Then he stops. Stops talking, stops moving, everything. Chuck turns his head to see Mike’s face and he's just staring at nothing.

“I'm an idiot,” he mutters, and slumps.

“What? Why?”

“I keep forgetting you're--you sort of--haven't done this stuff before. So I can't just do what I normally would, cuz you're not used to it.”

Chuck pulls his lips to one side, feeling his face heat. Bad enough to have Mike keep making a big deal of his lack of experience compared to Mike’s, but then he's even going to let it get in the way of having amazing sex? Not cool.

“Okay,” Chuck says, patiently, “so why don't you teach me? I'm not that slow on the uptake, bro, if you show me what you want, I can do it.”

Mike pauses, mouth open like he's thinking what to say.

“Is it a sixty-nine?” Chuck blurts out, because maybe he's always wanted to try that. “Because I know I'm not that great at sucking dick yet but I just need more practice, and I think I'd be pretty good at focusing and not getting distracted--”

“No!” Mike says. He swallows. “I mean, yeah, you are, uh, would be good at that, definitely. But I c-can’t--it--I was thinking of something else,” he finishes, eyes flicking away.

Chuck looks at his face and the tension in his shoulders and remembers the way, when he was touching Chuck before, he got to Chuck’s dick and stopped, used his hand instead of his mouth. He seemed apologetic about it, and now he's tight-lipped and avoiding Chuck’s eyes like he's ashamed. Like maybe part of him expects Chuck to remember him sucking dick before, to not understand the problem.

Chuck fully understands the problem, he's just trying not to think about it. He kisses Mike on the cheek to get his attention back and wins a startled look.

“So,” he says, “you gonna keep that something else a secret, or were you planning to let me in on it?”

Mike licks his lips. “I was thinking I could take you,” he says, and Chuck’s eyes go wide. “But it's--you're not used to it, so I don't know if you'd like it as much.”

Chuck has to swallow before he can speak. “Pretty sure that's not gonna be a problem, dude,” he says, high-voiced. “If you--I--I'm pretty sure I'll like it.”

Mike studies him for a moment and nods slowly. “I guess we could try it, anyway. If it doesn't work we can do something else, right?”

“Yeah, of course. So, uh. Should I lie down, or…?”

Mike smiles. “Sure,” he says. “At least to start with.”

Chuck flops down on his back, nibbling on his lip. He's not… _too_ nervous about this. He knows Mike will take good care of him and definitely won't hurt him or push him too fast. Of course, it's still perfectly possible for Chuck to get something wrong and hurt Mike somehow, or annoy him, or just make him realize that Chuck isn't the boyfriend he remembers after all, and then things will be horrible and awkward until he leaves.

Mike leans down and kisses him. “Stop that,” he says, pulling back. “You're working yourself up, I can tell. Cut it out, or I'll have to test how loud I can get you, and I'd rather just focus on making you feel good.”

Chuck blinks at him. “Wouldn't I be louder the better you made me feel?”

Mike’s smile goes lazy and wicked and he takes one of Chuck’s nipples between thumb and forefinger, pinching and rolling it gently as Chuck gasps and arches up into the touch. “Sure. And also after you'd been waiting to come for about twenty minutes.”

Chuck gapes at him as a wave of heat sweeps over him at the thought. Mike, sweet and merciless, getting him close again and again and refusing to let him climax, pulling him back every time until Chuck was sweating and begging and crying--holy shit. “ _Hh--_ holy _crap_ , Mikey,” he breathes, shivering.

Mike gives him a rueful look. “Unfortunately,” he says, blinking hard and opening his eyes wide like he's trying to stretch his drooping eyelids awake, “I don't think I'm awake enough for that kinda game tonight. Sorry, dude.”

Chuck hesitates. “Bro, if you need to sleep, you should really--”

“Do exactly what I'm doing, yup, I agree,” Mike says firmly, and ducks his head to suck on Chuck’s other nipple. By the time Chuck has the breath back to argue, he's lost the thread of what he wanted to say, which was undoubtedly the idea, but now he's too turned on to be properly annoyed about it.

Mike plays with Chuck’s nipples and sucks on his neck and leaves little red marks scattered liberally over his neck, chest and stomach, and by the time he finally slicks up one finger Chuck is almost more eager than anxious about what comes next. “It's not gonna hurt, buddy, just keep breathing,” Mike says gently, and strokes Chuck’s dick with the other hand so he gasps and relaxes.

It's not that the finger hurts when it slides in a second later, it's more that it's just--a non-event. Chuck was expecting something more. It's not even uncomfortable, really, just weird. He's not sure what's showing on his face, but it makes Mike drop his head and laugh softly.

“Gimme a minute, Chuckles,” he says, and his finger pushes deeper and--

Chuck jerks all over as a bizarre little jolt of pleasure goes through him. “ _Ohgod!_ ”

“There you go, babe,” Mike says, and does it again. And again, gentle and unstoppable, not that Chuck has any interest in him stopping, possibly ever.

Holy shit, so this is why Mike wanted Chuck to do this for him. This is why the guys in one of Chuck’s favorite pornos looked so happy. It's because this is _amazing_. Intense and weird, but amazing.

Chuck is gasping for breath, fingers digging into the mat under him, legs pulled up and spread wide, hips twitching. It's one of those times he's grateful he can't see himself from the outside, because he's pretty sure he looks ridiculous like this. When he opens his eyes, Mike doesn't seem to have noticed, though. He's smiling at Chuck like he's just really happy to be doing this, to have Chuck enjoying it.

“Feel good?” he says.

“Oh my _god_ , Mikey!” Chuck manages after a minute.

“Good,” Mike says, and his finger pulls out for a second, to be replaced by a more uncomfortably noticeable stretch. Chuck whimpers and squirms a little even though he's trying to hold still, and Mike’s other hand goes back to stroking his dick to get him to relax. It doesn't work as well this time, and when Mike finally rubs up against that place, the contrast between discomfort and pleasure makes Chuck almost dizzy for a moment.

Mike keeps doing that, and the discomfort doesn't fade so much as it changes, shifting over into intensity somehow, so Chuck finds himself whining and pushing back into Mike. Instead of laughing at him, Mike just says, “That's it, Chuckles, yeah, you got it.”

It's good, and it's a lot, and by the time the stretch increases again Chuck’s not even sure anymore if the ache of it is a bad or good thing. It's just sensation, surrounding him, overwhelming his mind and his twitching, sweating body. He doesn't notice when his eyes close, distracted by the diffuse pleasure moving through him, the way his body rocks and shivers with Mike’s touch.

He definitely notices when Mike gently pulls his fingers out, and hopes Mike didn't catch his complaining little whimper. By the quiet chuckle, he probably did. Chuck lies there with little shivers running through him. Everything is weird and amazing, including Mike.

He's kind of impatient as Mike makes slick noises getting ready to fuck him, and then Mike's hand is on his side. “Up on your knees, buddy.”

Chuck’s eyes startle open. “Huh?”

“The angle’s better, you'll like it,” Mike says, and under his guidance Chuck kneels up, facing away and bent over, and braces his hands against the cubicle wall.

Mike's fingers slide back into him and Chuck moans, head spinning a little, and gasps for breath. It takes a few minutes before Mike is satisfied he's ready, and by then Chuck is bitching at him.

“Mikey come _on_ , _god_.”

Mike says, “I just want you to like it, okay?”

“I'm gonna like it because it's _you_ ,” Chuck retorts. “Now shut up and fff--do it!”

Mike snorts. “I thought I was supposed to be the reckless one here,” he mutters, and pulls his fingers out to replace them with his dick. Chuck wants to argue, but is distracted panting and groaning. When he stops breathing for a minute and freezes up, Mike plays with his nipples and strokes his dick until he shivers and relaxes again. After that the slide in is easier, and then Mike finds the right place and Chuck’s whole body lights up.

Letting out a breath, Mike pulls back to do it again, stroking into him in a steady rhythm that Chuck suspects is going to have him falling to pieces in roughly two minutes. It's at least as good as Mike's fingers were, especially because it's mind-blowing all on its own that Mike is _fucking_ Chuck.

Mike is breathing hard, one hand on Chuck’s hip, the other on his chest, just holding him. Chuck is moaning and whimpering, fingers digging into the wall he's braced against. Meanwhile, Mike is so quiet Chuck can barely hear his occasional soft moan. Unfortunately, Chuck isn't really coherent enough to complain about it.

“Oh my _god_ , Mikey!” and a drawn-out moan doesn't exactly convey ‘make some noise, dude’.

“Yeah?” Mike gasps. “That good, babe, you like that?”

“ _Nngh-_ -obvious much, dude?” Chuck manages, and Mike laughs breathlessly, which sends a faint ripple and twitch all through him, even inside Chuck, and abruptly makes Chuck breathless too.

“I like to check,” Mike says, and keeps doing his best to drive Chuck completely out of his mind with pleasure.

Chuck’s pretty sure it’s a shamefully short period of time before he's wailing and clawing at the wall, all his muscles shaking, arms and legs barely holding him up.

“That's it, babe,” Mike's murmuring, “go ahead, I gotcha, you're so beautiful, you sound so good--”

“Mikey,” Chuck groans, because compliments are a nice thought, but when they're outright lies it's just distracting. “Don't--don't just-- _s-say_ stuff--I--I'm not--”

“Look we can argue about it later,” Mike pants, “but I think you sound incredible and I always have,” which isn't even the part Chuck has a problem with, but whatever. “I love the noises you make and the way you let me know when I'm getting it right. Just let me make you feel good, okay? God you're so great, Chuckles, I love you so much--”

It’s kind of like being shocked into orgasm, Chuck thinks distantly, and stops thinking entirely for a while. He's only vaguely aware of Mike shuddering still behind him, and then Mike wraps an arm around him and pulls him back against Mike and _oh_ , that's nice. So close, still connected like this, and warm and safe with Mike breathing on his spine, holding him.

It gets awkward after a couple of minutes, though, and when he comes down enough to go stiff and uncertain Mike lets him go, pulls away and starts cleaning himself up. Chuck grabs a wipe of his own and scrubs the sticky spots off his sleeping pad while he's at it.

When he's done he flops onto his back on the pad and stares up at the ceiling, listening to the oppressive lack of office noise. Mike moves over by him and gives him a cautious smile. It's hard to meet his eyes, and Chuck doesn't quite manage it.

“Hey. Everything okay?” Mike says.

Chuck snorts. “Let me think. Completely mind-blowing sex, third orgasm tonight--yeah, you know, I think I'm all right.”

Mike's smile twitches. “Okay. That's, that's good. Um. You think there's room on that pad for me?”

He's all tight and pulled into himself again, god, Chuck is messing this up. “Yeah. Come here, bro,” he says, offering a shoulder to lie on, and Mike curls into his side and clings as Chuck wraps both arms around him and holds on.

“Did I do something wrong?” Mike says in a low voice after a few minutes. “I didn't mean to push--”

“Dude, no, you didn't do anything,” Chuck says, despairing. “I'm the one who's being weird, it's not--”

“This is about me saying you're beautiful!” Mike says in sudden relief, raising his head off Chuck’s chest. “Sorry about that, I just--I forgot again, forgot you weren't used to it. I keep slipping up, but it's okay with little stuff, right, it didn't hurt you.”

“No, it didn't hurt me, although I refuse to believe I'd be used to you saying _that_ \--” Chuck stops himself before he gets pulled into a fifteen minute digression about whether he is or is not in any way attractive. (No, and don't be stupid, Mikey.) “No. It--it wasn't that.” He waits a second, looks down at Mike, but Mike just looks bewildered and worried.

Chuck takes a deep breath. “You said you--loved me,” he forces out, and his face catches fire. It sounds stupid even as a statement. People say things during sex, everyone knows that, he's an idiot to be getting hung up on it, even coming from too-earnest-to-live Mike Chilton--

Who gives him a puzzled smile that's suddenly overtaken by wide eyes and an open mouth. “ _Oh_. Yeah. Not used to it. Sorry, yeah, um. I guess that'd be… kind of a surprise. Didn't mean to startle you.”

He gives Chuck an apologetic look and continues to make no attempt to explain that he hadn't actually meant it like that, it was just a, a friendly thing or something, or--

“I was serious, by the way,” he says quietly, putting his head down on Chuck’s shoulder. “Been in love with you since--uh. For a while now. Just so you know.”

He doesn't seem to be waiting for an answer, which is lucky, because Chuck has no idea how to react. There's this bizarre tangle of awe and guilt and warmth and confusion and just--holy shit. The more he thinks about it, though, the more the guilt outweighs the rest, with a note of dread creeping in.

Swallowing, he strokes Mike's hair and Mike makes a tired contented sound. “The problem is,” Chuck says as steadily as he can, “you're actually in love with a guy who did and said things I don't remember. Without any of the memories…” He pauses to take a breath. “I don't think... can you say for sure I'm the same person?”

“Yeah, ‘course you are,” Mike says. “You're still Chuck.”

“No, but Mike, who you are is partly formed by your experiences, okay? So if I don't remember any of my experiences from the past three years, I can't be the same!”

Mike lifts his head, blinking. His eyelids are heavy and he's almost pouting, and Chuck finds the sleepy annoyed look distressingly cute. “Dude,” Mike says, “I've loved you since we were like, six. ‘N I've been _in_ love with you for a while. You're still the same guy. Or you wouldn't be freakin’ out about this. Just relax, okay?” He drops his head again.

Chuck stops arguing. He's not convinced, of course, but Mike is exhausted and Chuck’s not going to keep him awake.

It doesn't take long at all for Mike's breathing to even out, and Chuck waits ten more minutes or so before carefully extracting himself from underneath his best friend. Boyfriend? No, he tells himself, don't be dumb. Mike's not gonna be around for long anyway, so it's not like it would matter even if it was ‘boyfriend’, but it's not.

Keeping as quiet as he can, he gets dressed, takes a drink of water because all the sex made him thirsty, and puts the other water bottle near Mike in case he wakes up. Then he pulls his seldom-used blanket out of its drawer and spreads it over Mike, who looks painfully vulnerable naked and asleep, curled up on his side.

Mike sighs in his sleep and Chuck bites his lip hard, a sudden fierce pang going through his chest. He turns and goes to find Raoul.

Outside his muted cubicle, normal office life is going on. Chuck’s shoulders relax slightly as he listens to the sound of conversations and coding and arguing in the cubicles he passes. Someone is having sex still or again, probably Rich, whose stamina is just annoying, and someone is snoring.

Raoul’s PRT is sitting on the other side of his cubicle, playing some kind of solitaire on her screen while he codes. She glances up and smiles a greeting when Chuck knocks politely on the doorway.

“What?” Raoul says, not looking away from his screen. His dark brown hair is even longer than Ben’s, curling past his shoulders. Smug jerks, both of them.

“Gotta talk to you, dude,” Chuck says, and Raoul turns abruptly, wide-eyed.

“Where's Chilton?”

Chuck blinks. “Asleep...?”

Raoul stares at him. “You fucked Mike Chilton until he passed out.”

The PRT’s eyebrows fly up and she flicks a glance up and down Chuck, whose face heats as he glares at them both.

“What? No! He needs the sleep anyway, you jackass! He's worn out!” And how does Raoul even know they were having sex, anyway, it's not like he can have heard anything. Except for before Chuck turned on the sound-canceler, when they were kissing, and--right. Arguing about if they were going back to Chuck’s pod to have sex.

Chuck takes a breath and refocuses. “Look, I've got a variable string transition I need you to take a look at.” He wishes the department could agree on a code phrase that wasn't fucking gibberish, but when he first found out about it and complained, Raoul just snorted at him. (Huh. That was when he was fourteen. Which was four years ago, not last year. Weird.)

Raoul covers his face with his hands and groans. “Of course you do. Because I haven't got enough shit to do.” He drops his hands, smoothes his sleek mustache repeatedly with a thumb and forefinger, and finally says, “Fine, but you're gonna come to the break room with me so I can bitch at you about whatever you messed up. I need some water.”

Chuck blinks. “Yeah, great,” he sighs for the PRT’s benefit, and follows Raoul to the break room. Raoul makes a beeline for the fridge and pulls out something alcoholic, sweeps into the lounge, which is empty for once, and drops onto the couch. He takes a long drink, thunks the bottle down on the nearby table, and tightens his lips at Chuck.

Chuck has no idea what he's being pissy about. “What?” Chuck says, perching on the edge of a chair, and then twitching a little because oh right, he's kind of sore now. “He can't stay here, okay, Kane is--I think he's trying to break him.”

Raoul flicks out a stiff, angry hand. “Of _course_ he's trying to break him, it's _Mike fucking Chilton!_ ”

Chuck’s mouth drops open. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he snaps. “He's a good guy, okay, he doesn't deserve this! I know he was a cadet, but he got over that whole faithful servant of Deluxe thing, he's not--he's not like that anymore.”

Raoul is staring at him. He opens his mouth and closes it again, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I know.” He stops and blows out a long breath. “Sorry. It's not fair to get mad at you when you're... it's just sick leave. Sorry. I'll try to, um. Ahh, god.” One hand goes up to tug distractedly at his ear. “Kane… is going to be expecting escape attempts. This isn't like helping an ordinary citizen to get downstairs. He'll have safeguards we don't normally have to deal with--like those cuffs? Those probably have trackers in them. If he can't get them off he'll get caught before he's two steps outside the building.”

“Okay,” Chuck says, trying to keep his voice steady. “So he gets them off first.”

Raoul sighs and takes another drink.

“Look, I'm sorry it's going to be hard,” Chuck says. His chest is getting tight and it's an effort to breathe slowly and deeply. “If you don't want to risk it, just give me some tips and I'll do the work, I'll learn it, okay?”

Raoul points at him. “And that's another thing. You're going to be the automatic suspect, and unless you've got a surefire alibi, I'm not doing it, because Kane--” he stops.

“Mike thinks he might terminate me,” Chuck says, too high. “You think?”

Raoul shakes his head, eyes on the table. “I don't know, man,” he says. “But I'm not interested in finding out.”

Chuck clears his throat. “Right. Well. Actually, I will have an alibi.”

Raoul squints at him. Chuck explains.

Raoul doesn't like it, but he admits it has a good chance of working and it's better than the alternative. He also fails to come up with a better idea.

“Fuck,” he says finally, taking a last swig of his drink. “This is crazy. You're crazy. And I'm about to help Mike Chilton change floors. So I guess I'm crazy too.”

They discuss a few more details, Chuck agrees to ping Raoul when Mike wakes up, and they leave the break room, Raoul bitching about wasting his time while Chuck scowls behind him.

“Thanks for nothing, dickhead,” Chuck says when Raoul steps into his cubicle, and heads back to his with Raoul calling after him, “I _told_ you it wasn't a simple fix!”

Mike is still asleep, blanket pulled over his head and one foot sticking out the other end. Chuck smiles without even meaning to, that warm ache back in his chest. Then he sits down to get some work done.

Mike sleeps for hours, and Chuck is pleased enough that his satisfaction overshadows the guilt at not waking him. The guy obviously needs the rest, with the way his life is going. Who knows when’s the last time he had a really safe place to relax, either?

Chuck uses the time to check over some other people's code and then get halfway through the coding for his current project before getting seriously stuck. He does a couple 3D puzzles in a neat little program someone gave him, which sometimes loosens up his brain, jogs it out of its rut, but it doesn't work, so he stops fighting it and watches an episode of the latest show someone snuck up from ground floor.

He barely registers the quiet _click_ from under the blanket behind him, but a second later there's a sharp gasp and Chuck turns to see Mike sitting bolt upright, eyes wide and terrified on the empty doorway. He gasps for breath, glancing around the cubicle, looking back at the door, and slowly relaxes.

“You okay, bro?” Chuck says. “Bad dream?”

“Hate it when he does that,” Mike mutters, and reaches up to rub his eyes with both hands--or, no, he's only using one, but the other comes too. His cuffs are locked together again, this time in front of him.

“When he does wh--wait.” Chuck stares at the cuffs. “He can trigger those remotely?”

Mike blinks at him. “Yeah. Does it all the time. ‘Course, usually he waits until shortly before I'm going somewhere, but no surprise he's just messing with me this time.”

Chuck bites his lip and surreptitiously checks the time.

“Chuck,” Mike says. “He's just messing with me, right? It's not time to go, is it?”

“If you leave with the others,” Chuck says reluctantly, “pretty soon, yeah.”

He doesn't want to meet Mike's eyes, but after he hasn't answered for a moment, Chuck glances over. Mike's just sitting there, naked except for the blanket, his face in his hands.

“I'm sorry, bro,” Chuck says, “I just--you obviously needed to sleep, and you said he gives you stuff, and I don't know if any of it would mix badly with a stim tab but I didn't want to risk it…” And it was already going to hurt them both enough to lose each other, it'd only get worse the more time they spent together. Easier on everyone this way, in the end. He thinks.

Mike finally looks up and Chuck flinches, because his lips are tight, but there's devastation in his eyes. “I wish you had woken me up,” he says quietly, and it would hurt less if he just punched Chuck. “Can you help me get dressed?”

Trying to breathe through a suddenly tight throat, Chuck takes a moment to understand. He scrambles to his feet, feeling like an idiot, when Mike raises his cuffed hands a little.

“Right, s-sorry, sure.”

They get the shorts on easily enough, and then Chuck blinks at the vest. “Um. Will the key still unlock your cuffs?” He has less than no desire to send Mike out of his cubicle with the bruises on his chest on display.

Mike frowns. “I didn't think of that. I guess we can try?”

Chuck gets the key-chip and sticks it in the slot and the cuffs drop apart. Mike sighs in relief and pulls the vest on, and a second later the cuffs snap back together again.

“Five seconds of leeway,” Mike says tightly. “Good to know. Can you--?”

Chuck fastens the vest, grateful that Mike at least got it on first. “If it's that brief, I guess there's no point in unlocking them again. I could try leaving the key in the slot?”

Mike shrugs, eyes down. “Doubt it'll work. I'm used to it anyway, don't worry about it.”

Throat aching, Chuck swallows hard. “Mikey,” he says, and can't get any further for a moment.

Mike looks up at him and softens. “C’mere,” he says, pulling Chuck in with a hand on his shoulder, and keeps it there, arms folded carefully small between them as Chuck hugs him desperately. “It's okay, buddy. It's all right.”

“It's _not_ ,” Chuck says, voice breaking. “I'm really sorry, Mikey, you just looked so exhausted, and I'm being a coward and messing everything up because I didn't want it to hurt any worse than it already would, I thought having more time would just make me miss you more, so I let you sleep and I'm a selfish idiot and I'm sorry!”

“Chuckles, god, stop it,” Mike says. “I get it, okay? It's not--I'm not mad. It's okay, I... forgive you.” His voice drops. “I'll be okay. Just. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

Guilt shuts off Chuck’s voice entirely for a moment and he can only nod. What he's planning might be enough to save his skin, but Mike definitely wouldn't count it as taking care of himself.

“Okay,” Mike says. “Good.”

Chuck clings to him for another few minutes before prying himself away. They have a rapidly approaching deadline for the shit they have to get figured out, and Raoul will be pissed if Chuck makes his job harder than it has to be. Chuck sends him a quick ping and gets Mike up to date.

“And you're sure this guy will help instead of tipping someone off?” Mike says, frowning.

“ _Yes_ , because he's done this before!” Chuck says in exasperation. “Dude, I _know_ who I can trust, okay?”

Mike bites his lip. “It's just. It might be a little different with me.”

“Huh. He said something like that too,” Chuck says, frowning. “But he still agreed to help you.”

Mike pinches his lips and nods, which looks like he's still worried but isn't bothering to argue anymore. Chuck would have something to say about that except that's when he catches movement in the doorway and turns to see the man himself, waving pointedly since a knock wouldn't make it through the sound-canceler. Chuck beckons him in.

“All right,” Raoul says, nodding at Chuck before turning to Mike. “Let's talk about your route out of the building.”

Chuck is impressed. It takes Raoul ten minutes to explain the best route for Mike to take, both out of Kane Co Tower and out of Deluxe, find out the ideal time of night for the escape, and describe how Mike can best evade the patrols. Chuck only interrupts his practiced flow long enough to mention that the cuffs can be triggered remotely.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Raoul says. “If they lock or unlock on a transmitted signal, we can probably hack them to open as well so you're not carrying the damn trackers with you. That's gonna simplify things, if we don't have to figure out how to get you a key before everything else.”

“Never thought I'd be pleased about him pulling that stupid trick,” Mike mutters, and Chuck nods. Raoul picks up where he left off.

He's just gotten to, “Someone will be waiting halfway down the road to meet you,” when he abruptly stops. “Uh. Not that I guess I need to tell you that, you'll probably have--uh.” He stops again, looks at Chuck.

Mike, who has gradually relaxed as Raoul shows every sign of being invested in his escape, smiles wryly, opens his mouth and pauses. “Yyyeah. Hey, buddy,” he says apologetically to Chuck. “Can I ask you to step out for five minutes? Or, I guess we could go to the break room.” He gives Raoul an uncertain look.

“No, it's fine,” Chuck says, only mildly annoyed. If they’re going to talk about things that'd set off Chuck's brain burn, at least Mike has learned enough to make sure Chuck won't hear it. “I'll go stretch my legs.”

He heads to the break room himself, checks the time, opens a screen and stares at it blankly. An unexpected wave of fatigue sweeps over him and he sags against the arm of the sofa. His eyes are burning suddenly and his throat is closing up, his defenses against grief and despair lowered by exhaustion. Dropping his head into his hands, he wonders how his life became this insane mess.

No time for that, though. Raoul is trying to get Mike up to speed as fast as possible so he can leave when he’s expected to, Chuck can’t sit here and wallow. He breathes deep, swallows, blinks his stinging eyes, and gets up to fetch a stim tab from the supply cupboard. Definitely time to charge up again if he's feeling this run down.

When he heads back to his cubicle, the PRTs are drifting one by one out of the other cubes, saying amiable goodbyes to techs they might or might not see again in a week. Inside the silence around Chuck’s cube, Raoul is scowling at a screen as cover for grilling Mike on his route and timing.

“I think he's got it down,” Raoul says to Chuck. “You can stop flipping out now, he's gonna be fine.”

“Shut up, geez,” Chuck sighs. “Bro… it's time.”

“Right, I'm gone,” Raoul says, and ducks out the door.

“He said they'll take care of you,” Mike says, stepping closer. “I know--I _know_ you can take care of yourself, okay?” he adds as Chuck opens his mouth to protest. “It just makes me feel better to know someone's got your back.”

“Lots of people, dude,” Chuck says, wrapping himself around Mike. “We all gotta watch each other's backs in here, ‘s how we survive.”

“I'm glad,” Mike says. “I--god. I'm gonna miss you, babe.”

Chuck hauls in a breath, holding off tears for all he's worth. “Me too,” he says, and it comes out wobbly and choked.

“Please be okay,” Mike whispers. “I love you.”

“Goddammit Mikey,” Chuck says unsteadily, “if you make me cry--”

Mike tries to hug him and grunts in annoyance as the cuffs get in his way. “Darn it--hang on. Here,” he says, and cups Chuck’s cheek with one hand, pulling him in for a kiss. Chuck returns it hungrily, chest aching, and for a moment they're entwined, breathing together, warm and close and good.

Then Mike pulls back. “Turn the sound thing off,” he says abruptly, eyes wide. “My escort’ll be here any minute and you said you're not supposed to use it except for classified stuff, I don't want you to get in trouble!”

“He's coming back?” Chuck says, startled, pulling up a screen to unmute the cubicle. He doesn't bother to mention that in a while he's going to get in worse trouble than that would be, and do it on purpose. Mike wouldn't appreciate it. “I thought you'd just leave with the PRTs.”

“Too many escape attempts,” Mike says briefly, watching the doorway, and sags in relief as the noise of casual chatter, movement and game music washes back in.

“God, bro,” Chuck groans, and goes to hug him again. “Be careful, okay? Don't piss Kane off.”

Mike hesitates. “I know,” he says. “I'll try to let him think this… had some of the effect he was hoping for.” He leans in, rests his forehead against Chuck’s.

A moment later there's a sudden _thud!_ from the doorway and Chuck jumps, heart rocketing into his throat at the loud noise. Mike turns to deliver a narrow-eyed glare at the Elite standing there, one hand raised to ‘knock’.

“Time to go,” the Elite says, unmoved. With the mask, Chuck can't tell if it's the same guy as before. He sounds maybe a little different?

“Take care,” Mike says, brushing knuckles along Chuck’s jaw. “Maybe I'll see you again.”

Chuck doesn't know if he means another visit or--something else, decides on the visit so he can answer and not get hurt. “Maybe, yeah.”

Mike smiles at that, brief but warm, and Chuck knows he got the message. Then he steps away, and the Elite is saying, “Key? Or did you lose it?”

“Right here,” Chuck says, voice high, and hands the key-chip to Mike, who looks genuinely amused by the way the Elite stiffens.

“No! Not to _him_ , you idiot--”

“Hey,” Mike says, “don't call my buddy an idiot.” He steps forward and calmly offers up the chip. The Elite takes it with some caution, which startles Chuck. Sure, Mike’s hands are in front of him now, but they're still cuffed. How much trouble could he be, an ex-cadet up against a grown soldier?

“Let's go,” the Elite says, jerking his head, and Mike smiles one more time at Chuck, walks out of the cubicle, and he's gone. The Elite vanishes after him along with the last of the departing PRTs.

Chuck swallows several times, scrubs his hands over his face, and sits down at his desk. Maybe he wants to sob wildly, curl up into a little ball on the floor, but he doesn't have time right now. There are things he needs to get started on immediately if he wants that alibi.

He starts by writing up two encoded files and sending them to Ben, one with the note “send bk 2 me in 1 ½ wks”, the other specifying four months or whenever Chuck gets off sick leave. Then he can focus on the next task.

The trick is that he's got to judge what the backlash will be and calibrate his offense carefully. It'll be useless if he gets away too lightly, but he doesn't want to overcompensate, either. It takes a while to decide, but finally he picks his target and starts hacking.

By the time he finishes the job, picking up a bunch of information he absolutely should not have, the grief and fear and helpless anger over Mike's situation have all settled into a dull, heavy weight in the middle of his chest. It's not easy to ignore, but so long as he keeps busy, switching from one project to another, he's too distracted to start leaking tears.

He's been working a couple hours when an Elite finally shows up a second before Chuck’s screen flashes with the top-priority message that he is ordered to report to Medical. Aware that he won't know if all this worked until he wakes up, Chuck takes a deep breath and goes with the Elite. At least now he'll never have to actually deal with this painful mess of emotions.

*

A week later, Chuck is bleary from waking up after an unexpected six hours of sleep. During the PRT party the night before, Kirsten wore him out and then cuddled with him until he passed out, and he's torn between between being annoyed and sheepishly grateful. He was definitely planning to get more done last night, but wow, even sleep-dazed he's thinking a lot clearer now.

He wanders to the break room for food, and when he comes out again the whole office is in an uproar. Chuck frowns, catching snippets of conversation as he heads back to his cubicle.

“--and Kane’s ready to wring necks.”

“Of fucking course he is, it's _Chilton_ , everyone knows how he is about--”

“--don't even know which way he went, like he had the cameras’ blind spots mapped out--”

“Everybody better keep their heads down, Kane’s gonna--”

“--trust Mike Chilton to up and fucking vanish--”

“--got friends in low places.”

“Hey,” Anton says, leaning on the doorway of his neighboring cubicle. “So, whatcha think?”

“Mike Chilton?” Chuck asks him, blinking. “Seriously? I _know_ him--or, I did a while ago, I guess. Why would he leave Deluxe? He's a _cadet!_ ”

Anton nods. “Yeah, um. He _was_. Man, am I looking forward to you getting off sick leave.”

Chuck glares at him. “Gee, I'm sorry it's such a trial to you. You poor guy.”

Anton rolls his eyes. “I just dunno how much it's safe to tell you, man! He was a cadet, and then he, uh, went rogue, and then he got caught…” Anton trails off, staring at Chuck for a minute, then sort of shakes himself and goes on. “And, uh, demoted. To a punching bag. So, that's why he'd leave.”

Chuck stares. God, he's missed so much in three years. Mikey was so proud to be a cadet, ever since he got into the program. What would it take to make him break away from that?

At least he's tough enough to survive as a sparring partner--hell, he might not even care about the pain as much as the humiliation of the demotion; he was always proud of how far he could push himself, how much he could endure. He's a hell of a lot more able to handle that kind of treatment than Chuck would be, that's for sure. Weird reflexes or not, Chuck’s pretty sure if someone punched him he'd curl up on the ground until they went away.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. “Well, I'm glad he got out, then.” He nods to Anton, who’s got a funny pinch-lipped look but isn't saying anything, and turns for his own cubicle.

Before he gets two steps, the distant sound comes of the office door opening, and silence spreads out from it in ripples. A text screen pops up in front of Chuck, and one by Anton, an office-wide alert with one word on it: ELITE.

“Shit,” Anton whispers. “Get to your desk, now.”

Like that's not the obvious course of action, thanks. Get to your desk and look busy is standard operating procedure when soldiers or any other authorities show up unexpectedly, and Chuck is sitting down with his screens up in three fast strides.

Of course, that doesn't do him much good when the Elite steps into his doorway.

“Mister Kane wants to see you.”

*

By the time they reach Kane’s office, Chuck has gone from bewildered and freaking out to numb with terror. He has no idea why Kane would want to see him--up until today he was pretty sure Kane didn't know he existed, and Chuck was completely satisfied with that state of affairs--but when he's already ragingly angry, it can't go well for Chuck. Kane is the ultimate authority; he could have Chuck thrown in a detention cell for answering a question too slowly or breathing wrong. And it seems like he's in exactly the kind of mood to do that.

Running would be pointless, so he follows the Elite through the door and down the length of the vast room at the top of Kane Co Tower. The Elite stops a few steps away from the desk, behind which Kane is standing with his back to them, looking out the window.

Saluting, the Elite says, “Sir. Programming and Data Technician 13865, as ordered.”

“Dismissed,” Kane says distantly, and the Elite salutes again, turns, and strides away without a backward glance.

Chuck stands huddled into himself, not daring to speak. There's no chair for him, and he's not sure he could move enough to sit in one without his legs dropping him on the floor right now even if there was one.

When Kane finally turns around, he gives Chuck a narrow-eyed smile that's almost enough to buckle Chuck’s knees all by itself, it's so sharp and unamused. “So,” he says. “Chilton’s little friend.”

“Wh-what?” Chuck says, voice high. “That was years ago, sir! I haven't s-seen him in ages!”

Kane’s smile gains a note of satisfaction at that, but gets no less deadly. “As far as you're aware, yes.”

Chuck blinks and wonders when he--when they--and then stops, because wondering is dangerous on sick leave. He can't afford to have an attack in front of Kane.

“What do you know about Chilton’s escape?” Kane says, eyes boring into Chuck. He's not smiling now.

Chuck shakes his head, trying to get enough air to speak. It's hard to breathe, his chest is heaving but it doesn't help. “Nothing! I mean, I heard he did, but, uh, last I knew he was a cadet, so I didn't even know he'd want to!” Except that you made him a punching bag, he thinks, with a tiny spark of anger that’s nearly smothered under the stark fear. Even Mike's loyalty wouldn't keep him around after that.

“Oh yes,” Kane says. “Chilton was a cadet. He made Commander, in fact, before he threw it all away to become a traitor.” His attention on Chuck sharpens, intensifies. “And took you with him.”

Chuck stares for a second before the accusation gets through and folds him up around the pain. He's not even sure he believes it, but just the concept of personally betraying Deluxe is enough to have him gasping desperately, clutching at his head. God, don't think about it to argue. Primes, first prime over thirty is thirty-one, then thirty-seven, forty-one, forty-three, forty-seven--

Slowly the attack dies down, the brain burn eases off. He's still on his feet, if shaking and unsteady. Panting, he lowers his hands from his head and looks up, still carefully fixed on the sequence of primes so he won't think about what Kane just said.

Kane is watching him, smiling slightly again. There's a screen up beside him that wasn't there before, and when Chuck glances at it he realizes it's transmitting. Kane is sending this somewhere. That doesn't seem like a good thing, but before he can worry about it, Kane’s talking again.

“I considered if you might be responsible for his escape even with your most recent memory wipe,” he says deliberately.

Chuck doubles over with a cry as another burning shock goes through his head. Kane is still talking. “Despite everything, I don't think you are, unfortunately. Which means the true perpetrators are out of reach.”

That seems like a weird assumption--nope, no, focus. One hundred one, one hundred three, one hundred seven, one hundred nine, one hundred thirteen--

He straightens up again, rubbing his temples carefully, and keeps his eyes on the floor this time. The fear is still overwhelming, but just below it is growing anger. Kane doesn't even think Chuck's done anything, but he's still punishing him. What a twisted son of a bitch.

“And Chilton is also out of reach, although he will be retrieved sooner or later, if I have to raze that filthy sewer to the ground to do it. Meanwhile, he left you behind. His dear, dear friend.” Kane’s smile grows. “Not that he could really take you with him, could he? Not if he wants you intact.”

Chuck flinches at the warning pang that goes through him, but Kane keeps talking.

“Untrustworthy as he is, he must know that you would burn out in minutes if you tried to flee to Motorcity.”

Chuck’s knees give out in the searing agony that scours the inside of his skull. He's moaning with it, helpless to think or breathe or move from his curl on the floor.

It lasts for… a while maybe, he can't be sure, but when he can finally focus on something besides breathing, he realizes another voice is talking.

“--he's kind of upset. Cute little ploy trying to put my co-leader out of commission, Dad.”

Chuck’s head twitches up before he remembers not to draw attention to himself, but it's okay. All Kane’s attention is on the second screen that's popped up in front of him, and the redheaded girl staring coolly out at him, her arms crossed.

Kane’s pained, furious expression twists into a vengeful smile. “Trying? Or succeeding? Chilton's not just upset right now, he's _destroyed_ , isn't he. He can't stand to see his little friend suffer like this.”

...Oh. Chuck isn't doing great right now in terms of quick comprehension, but _shit_. Kane could burn him out like this, just to get to Mike.

Kane’s daughter shrugs, lips pursed. “Not so destroyed that he's not ready to drive up to Deluxe right now and blow things up. He's a liability like this.”

“He's free to try,” Kane purrs.

“No, he's not!” she says. “Because I won’t let him. I know you. You're not planning on doing this just once, you're going to keep torturing that kid to get to Mike until either he dies or Mike snaps!” She pauses, glaring, and brushes her hair back over her shoulder. “So, here's the deal. You stop, leave him alone in his safe little techie box, and I won't wreak havoc on every system in Deluxe that's hackable.”

Kane snorts. “As if you could, my girl.”

She gives him an edged smile. “I thought you learned your lesson about underestimating me. You must have been wondering how Mike got out. You're aware it was me, but you don't know how.” She tilts her head. “I _assume_ you realize it was me.”

Kane growls.

“You have no idea what I'm capable of. You never did.” She curls her lip. “You're fond of ultimatums, so here's one for you. Quit this game, or I'll start one you can't win.”

The screen blips out. Kane stares at the space where it was, breathing heavily, before he lets out a rumbling shout and slams both fists down on his desk. Chuck flinches and lowers his head back to the floor, like if he doesn't look Kane might not see him.

“Get up,” Kane growls. “You cowardly little leech, what makes you worth anyone's concern? Chilton is more distressed over you than he was over throwing away everything I ever gave him! My own daughter would _threaten_ me over you! _Get up!_ ”

Shaking, Chuck tries to climb to his feet, but his legs won't hold and he keeps swaying and losing his balance, falling back to kneel. His head aches and the terrified tension isn't helping.

Kane strides out from behind his desk and grabs the front of Chuck’s shirt, lifts him off his knees and into the air like he's weightless. “There is nothing worthwhile about you,” Kane says, almost conversational. “You're just one more cowering, spineless rat, and it's no surprise Chilton left you behind to serve as his scapegoat, even if he regrets it now. No foresight and that _elastic_ loyalty is just what we've come to expect from him and his _Burners_.”

Chuck screams. There's a minute of endless pain almost too great to comprehend, where his bones liquify like hot metal and every nerve ending goes into shrieking, jittering rebellion as he convulses midair. The agony drowns out thought until everything goes away.

When he blinks awake, his head is throbbing. He's on the floor, why--Kane’s office, fuck, Mike escaped and Chuck's in--Kane is _right there_. Standing over him, staring down narrow-eyed and cold. Chuck gasps, whimpers a little at his head and tries to scramble upright. His arms go out from under him, won't support his weight, he can't even sit up. God, what did Kane _do_ , Chuck hasn't felt this bad after an attack since he was like thirteen.

He wants to get up, but after a couple of attempts, he stops trying. Huddling into himself at Kane’s feet, he hopes the way he's shivering is enough for the bastard to be content with how obviously messed up Chuck is.

“Pathetic,” Kane says coldly, turns and stalks back behind his desk. He raises a screen. “Send someone to get this trash off my floor.”

Sitting down, he ignores Chuck until the Elite arrives to take him away.


	4. Chapter 4

Chuck can't seem to stay on his feet yet, so the Elite has to half-carry, half-drag him all the way back to the office. By the time they arrive, the Elite is growling under his breath about _fucking weaklings_ , and Chuck is grateful when the guy opens the office door and shoves him through it, not even bothering to get him to his cubicle. Granted, he still can't walk, but at least he can lie quietly on the ground here without some dickhead snarling in his ear.

“Holy shit,” someone says, and then there's a small commotion and a number of hands are first trying to help Chuck get up, then when his twitching, exhausted muscles keep refusing to support him, actually lifting him. Nate, who’s got a view of the door from his cube, Anton, and Rich cooperate to get Chuck back to his own cubicle.

They set him carefully in his chair, and when he shows no sign of wanting to fall out of it again, pull their hands away and stare at him.

“Fuck,” Anton sighs, shaking his head. “I wasn't sure we were gonna see you again, man. You okay? Um, anything broken?”

“Just my faith in Deluxe,” Chuck says, and the others snicker at the techie joke and relax some. “Seriously, he j-just burned me for a while, I'll be fine.”

“Fucking _bastard_ ,” Rich says softly. Eyes narrow, he rakes a hand through short copper hair. He’s not on sick leave, so the fever had to be at least three months ago, but it can’t have been much more.

“For a reason, or just because he felt like it?” Nate asks. He’s the cautious type; his dishwater-blonde hair is chin length, a little longer than Anton’s.

“I don’t think I’m accused of anything,” Chuck says, shrugging. The shrug almost unbalances him and Rich puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Mike is out of reach, but I'm here, and… I guess Kane thinks we're still really good friends? So, I dunno, I guess…” He trails off, realizing the other three are exchanging looks. “Okay, what?”

Rich pats him on the shoulder. “Pretty sure you guys _are_ still good friends,” he says, and all three guys have on that carefully neutral face techies learn to wear around people on sick leave, neither confirming nor denying anything. From this end, Chuck is finding it really irritating.

“Well, great,” he grumbles. “I mean, I'd hate to think Kane was torturing me _mistakenly_ , that'd be so sad for him!”

Anton winces slightly.

“The point is,” Nate says firmly, “if you're not accused of anything, that's good. If Kane’s going to be singling you out… that's probably not so good.” He exchanges looks with the other two again. “And I'm not sure there's anything we can do to protect you.”

“Not much,” Ben said from the doorway, making Chuck jerk in startlement so Rich has to catch him again. “But we'll do what we can. Let's get him lying down, doesn't look like he's safe to sit up yet.”

Over Chuck’s protests, they get his sleep pad out and lay him down on it until the aftereffects of multiple burns in such a short period of time wear off. When the other three leave, Ben steals his chair and sits at his desk, looking over his latest code to kibitz while Chuck snarks in response.

It takes an hour or so for him to recover, and Ben sticks around until Chuck is on his feet again. He's almost as exasperated by the covert concern as he is sheepishly grateful for it.

Despite all the worry, nothing happens to Chuck for the rest of the day, or the days after that. He's puzzled but relieved. The third day after his interview with Kane, Raoul drops by.

“Looks like Kane’s probably going to leave you alone for at least a while,” he says quietly.

Chuck stares at him. “Okay, not that I wouldn't be thrilled to believe that, but what makes you say that?”

Raoul gives him a rueful smile, stepping closer to ruffle Chuck’s fuzzy hair. “Tell you when you're older.”

Chuck snorts, rolling his eyes. “Right, by four months. Fine, okay, can you give me a hint how seriously I can relax?”

Raoul rubs at an eyebrow, frowning to himself. “I guess… keep your nose clean and stay productive for the next few months, and you won't have to worry. That's pretty solid. And, y’know, not much different from the rest of us.”

Chuck pinches his lips and sighs heavily through his nose. “I am really fucking looking forward to getting off sick leave.”

Raoul shakes his head and turns away. “You and everyone else, man,” he mutters as he walks out, and Chuck’s not sure if he means that obviously everyone on sick leave wants to get off it, or that for some bizarre reason the rest of the techs are eager for Chuck in particular to be done with it. That would be weird. Kind of nice, but weird. He probably meant the other one.

The next day Ben comes knocking. “Hey,” he says, leaning in the doorway. “If you suspected you were about to come down with a fever and you left yourself a backup file, what kind of encryption would you use?”

Chuck stares at him. “That is the most dubious hypothetical I've ever heard. Try again.”

Ben huffs, pulls the band out of his ponytail, and irritably starts trying to sweep all the straying wisps around his face back into a tidy bunch again. “I want to check the file so I can make sure it's safe for you.”

Chuck tightens his lips. “Really? You think I'm incompetent enough to write myself a note that'd burn me?”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Get your head out of your ass, man, no one thinks you're incompetent. You were just…” He pauses, frowning faintly as he gets the band on his hair again. “Under a lot of strain. I sure as hell wouldn't have been thinking clearly, if it was me.”

“Strain?” Chuck says faintly, then realizes, “How long ago was this?”

“Week and a half, just about.”

Damn, so it won't have any information about those lost three years. What the hell did he need to write himself a note about so recently? Unless it was connected to the reason he got another fever.

Chuck goes stiff. “Ben, tell me I didn't get Mike Chilton free.”

Ben blinks, frowns and shakes his head firmly. “No. Whoever did that, it wasn't you.”

Ben is an excellent liar because when he says something with that certainty, you find yourself believing him even though you know he might be lying. It's a really helpful trait to have around people on sick leave.

“Okay,” Chuck says, sighing in relief. So it might have been connected with the fever, but that had nothing to do with Mike's escape. It's not that finding out he was responsible would hurt him, as far as he knows, but he absolutely would spend the next several months paranoid that Kane would find out, call him in and burn him out right there. He's nervous about enough things already, thanks.

He rubs a hand over his head fuzz. “Fine, here.” He grabs a datastick off his desk and holds it out. “The key should be on there.”

“‘Preciate it,” Ben says, nodding, takes it and leaves.

Twenty minutes later, long enough that Chuck starts wondering how long the damn note was, Ben comes back and hands him the datastick.

“File’s on there,” he says, and hesitates. “If, uh. If you want to talk to someone when you've read it. You know where to find me.”

He looks uncomfortable, and Chuck stares at him. Ben is a good guy, adept at helping on the don't-burn-out, keep-breathing front, but he's not exactly skilled on the empathetic feelings-discussion end of things. The fact that he feels the need to offer is kind of alarming.

“Dude. Do I want to know what's on here?”

Ben looks at him a minute, then sighs. “Yeah. I'm pretty sure you do.” He shoots Chuck a fragment of a smile and walks out.

Chuck gives the datastick an unnerved look, puts it carefully down and goes back to the project he was working on. It keeps niggling at him, though, mingled curiosity and anxiety chewing on him until he's almost paralyzed with it. Giving in, he steps over to the wall his cubicle shares with Ben’s and taps on it.

“Look, can you just--give me a clue what the damn thing’s about?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he hears Ben mutter, and glares at the wall. Then, slightly louder, “Fine. Chilton’s your boyfriend.”

“What?!” Chuck says, and it comes out as a sort of squawk. His ears go hot. “Dude! Not funny!”

“I'm not fucking joking,” Ben growls. “Go read your goddamn backup.”

Chuck stares at the wall, open-mouthed, then huffs and turns on his heel. Ben can be a dick sometimes, but Chuck didn't realize he was in that kind of mood today. Whatever he read in Chuck’s note, he's clearly skewing or mischaracterizing it badly.

Plugging in the datastick, Chuck opens the file and decrypts it.

_First: no I was NOT responsible for Mike’s escape, come on, I don't even have most of the expertise._

Oh. That's a point. Sure, he could figure some of it out if he tried, but he's not sure about stuff like the security cameras. If he hadn't already asked Ben like a dumbass noob, he'd be reassured right now. He reads on.

_Second: don't ask me why or how but Mikey’s actually in love with me?!? And we were totally boyfriends and I guess never broke up so kind of are still?_

Chuck stops reading, blinks a few times, goes back and rereads. No, that's… that's what it says. His eye slides down, looking for an explanation.

_Third: I saw Mike, we visited. He got kind of ridiculously hot like a big jerk, ~~I mean his shoulders~~ ~~his arms~~ he's just, fuck. So this love and boyfriend stuff isn't me guessing or hearing secondhand or anything, he told me and he was all earnest and straightforward and 100% for real, I mean it's Mike. Idk how long it'd last if we spent any real time together but._

That is not an explanation, goddammit, pre-fever him. Chuck sits back, eyeing the paragraph. He's not convinced, okay, Mike falling in love with him just does not make sense. He catches some of the next part without meaning to, goes back and reads it more carefully.

_Fourth: the thing where he stopped talking to me didn't actually go like that..._

Wide-eyed, Chuck reads the description of the badly timed fever and the unforeseen way it intersected with cadet training and thinks back, frowning. He remembers calling the barracks when he was fifteen, getting an impatient voice on the other end instead of Mike and going all squeaky and unsure, asking for Mike Chilton. The jackass soldier who picked up snapped that he was in formation and then hung up. It took all Chuck’s courage to call back a few days later, and when it still wasn't Mike who picked up, to ask to leave him a message that Chuck called. The guy who answered snorted and said sure.

He tried another time or two, but he never got through to Mike, and Mike never called him back even though Chuck thought at least one of the guys had sounded cooperative about passing something on. Chuck spent a while wondering what he'd done or said that'd made Mike mad, and then another while being mad at Mike for ditching him like that. Then he realized that he should’ve known Mike wouldn't stay friends with a lowly tech once he was a cadet, and did his best to forget it and move on.

Except Mike _couldn't_ call him back, wasn't allowed, and Chuck knows how Mike is about following the rules--or, how he was, at least. (God, it's so weird he went rogue.) That makes the boyfriends thing slightly more plausible, if Mike never meant to ditch him in the first place. If he maybe missed Chuck, but couldn't call or come see him--at least, not until some point during the time Chuck’s missing.

Mike must have done that, and they reconciled. And got closer, and started dating? It's a bizarre thought, still doesn't make sense, but he can't doubt his own word on it.

He tries to picture it, imagine him and Mike doing, like, coupley stuff together. Some of it comes surprisingly easily; Mike already hung all over Chuck as a matter of course, they were always kind of high-contact, and they did lots of things together, played games and hung out and were together _all the time_. The familiar ache comes back at the memory, linked with the old resentment that--that's groundless now, he’s got to let go of that since it wasn't Mike’s fault.

It's unsettling to find out pieces of his life he thought he understood were actually different. Are different. Like the ground has changed shape under him.

And no matter how he tries, he can't quite imagine what it'd be like to date Mike. Can't imagine what Mike looks like now, three years after Chuck’s last memory of him. He was all gangly, all shoulders that weren't filled out yet and big hands and long legs that he didn't trip over nearly as much as Chuck did his, the bastard. The note says he got hot, but Chuck can't picture what that would look like, especially when he always kinda liked the way Mike looked. How would he get hotter? Maybe he just got… more Mike. That'd work.

_fifth if mike did not escape, read attached file_

And that's it, that's the end of the note. Looks like it was added as an afterthought. Chuck frowns, considering. Mike did escape, but he's curious. He wouldn't have put anything dangerous in this file either, so it won't do any harm to read it--except he can't, because the file is missing.

“Ben, where’s the attachment?” he calls.

There's silence for a moment. Then Ben appears in Chuck’s doorway. “I took it off. You don't need it,” he says shortly.

Chuck stares at him. “I know, but I want to read it.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Oh what, now I would've burned myself after all?”

“Don't get mouthy with me, dipshit.” Ben glares at him.

Chuck glares back. “It's my data! I gave it to you to hold, not to keep away from me!”

Ben’s jaw sets. “You gave it to me in case of a worst case scenario that hasn't happened. And you didn't know what to do about it, and your proposed solution wasn't much of one and it was fucking _terrible_. If you read it now you'll just freak out, which is pointless, because spoiler! Chilton’s fine! And you're fine, so let's keep it that way!”

Holy fuck. Chuck stares at Ben. “What the hell did I put in there that has _you_ freaking out?”

Ben swipes a hand over his smoothly pulled back hair and makes an irritable noise. Lips tight, he looks at Chuck a minute before saying, “You were willing to sacrifice a _lot_ for him if shit didn't go well. I realize you weren't in the best frame of mind at the time, but you were still making shit decisions and you didn't bother to let anyone else in on the problem to help. It’s bullshit. Forget the file, you're not reading it.”

Chuck lets his breath out slowly. Granted, Ben’s being a dick, but it's for a reason. Whatever Chuck was planning clearly upset Ben on his behalf, which might be touching if Chuck wasn't still kind of annoyed at his data theft.

“Fine,” he says, clipped. “Forget it, nevermind.” If it could worry Ben this much, it'd probably disturb Chuck a lot worse, so he's better off shutting down the nagging curiosity and waving this one piece of data goodbye. He thinks for a moment about Mike forced to work as a punching bag, angry and bruised up and trapped, and maybe he gets why he'd have been willing to do a lot to fix that.

“You and your crazy boyfriend, I fucking swear,” Ben mutters, relaxing some.

Chuck hunches his shoulders. “Don't call him that,” he says, and then realizes that he's made a huge mistake.

The smirk takes over Ben’s face and he leans comfortably in the doorway like he's settling in for a nice long chat. What is Chuck’s life.

“You did read the rest of the file, right?” Ben says, mock solicitous.

“Yeah, but--”

“Mm, yeah, I know, you didn't mention the sex in it,” Ben says, shaking his head.

“What?!” Chuck shrieks.

“All the sex you and your loverboy had when he visited you here? Yeah, you left that out for some reason.”

Chuck gapes for a minute, face flushing with heat until it's burning. “You're just messing with me.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Well, I'll grant you I couldn't hear any of it because you put up your noise blocker, but judging by the way you were walking at the end of the night--”

“Oh my _god_ shut up!”

“Not to mention the tousled look you both had going, and the puffy kissed-on lips, the kind of dazed look--” Ben dodges the empty datastick Chuck flings at him and gives him an innocent look. “What, weren't you just complaining about not having data?”

“You can't be serious!” Chuck says shrilly, waving his hands around. “Why the fuck would Mike want to sleep with me?!”

Ben looks amused. “While you're asking the worst possible person, I understand it's how a lot of people respond to being around someone they think is the best thing in the whole goddamn world, which in case you were wondering, is exactly how he looked at you.”

“No he didn't,” Chuck says faintly. Mike couldn't possibly. God, just the thought puts this shivery twist in his stomach, but that's not--the note agrees, though. It says Mike’s in love, and that's how you look at someone when you're in love with them.

“Excuse _you_ , who's on sick leave here?” Ben says. “Whereas, who has crystal clear recall of all the looks he gave you? At least, while I was around.” He pauses for a moment, eyes on some mental image, and shakes his head slightly. “He's got it bad for you,” he adds, sobering some.

Chuck shakes his head and scrubs both palms over his scalp, shoving the short fuzz of his hair back and forth. ‘Mike is in love with you, he said so even though you don't remember’ is just a data point, and with nothing to hook it on it's easy to treat it as an outlier and more or less ignore it. Take it out and puzzle over it, shrug, put it away again. It has no impact.

‘Your friend, who knows you, saw how Mike looked at you, observed the behavior of both of you, and drew the conclusions that he's in love with you, and also that you definitely fucked’ is… Well, that's a lot harder to ignore.

“You had to notice all the hickies on your neck,” Ben points out, and Chuck’s hand flies up to cover the one that only finally faded a few days ago, which _yes_ , thanks, he'd noticed. He assumed that was a PRT, holy crap, that was _Mike?_

“Look,” he squeaks, glaring, “shouldn't you, like, lack this kind of prurient interest?”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Dude. Child. Baby boy. This has nothing to do with prurience and everything to do with the delight of making you blush. You're even easier than Rich.”

“Whoa, leave me out of it,” Rich calls from his cube, as Chuck’s face gets still hotter. Having attention called to it always makes it worse.

Ben lifts his head, looking thoughtful. “Then again, there's nothing like revisiting an old hobby now and then,” he says, smirk renewed, and walks out with purpose.

Chuck passes a hand over his face, closes the file, disconnects the datastick, and tries to go back to work with Rich’s swearing at Ben and Ben’s sly responses in the background. It doesn't work very well, because now Chuck keeps coming to and finding himself sitting still, nibbling on his lip and trying to imagine what it'd be like, sex with Mike. It's a lot harder to guess at than dating. You can't guess someone's sexual preferences and behavior by looking at them.

Of course, you can think about what they're like and try to extrapolate. Mike was always bouncy and enthusiastic, and he never had a clue about Chuck’s anxiety issues, but he was loyal and protective and liked doing things he thought would make Chuck happy. Chuck can imagine him being pushy purely out of excitement, but he can't picture Mike being selfish. Which means… he'd be working hard to make sure Chuck was enjoying himself. Maybe he wouldn't think to check in often enough, but if Chuck asked for something, he'd probably agree, and-- _god_. It must have been _amazing_. Damn, he was probably really skilled and experienced, too, and Chuck… isn't. _Agh_. Well, hopefully he wasn't totally put off by that--

Not that it matters, Chuck abruptly remembers, because Mike’s gone. Downstairs, changed floors. So all of this is purely academic, because they probably won't meet again.

The pit of his stomach curls around something hard and cold. Chuck swallows and focuses on work again, despite the sudden ache in his chest. He's slow, weighed down, for the rest of the day.

*

Chuck spends the next three and a half months keeping his head down and doing his work, which is usual, although the amount of unwanted attention he gets anyway isn't. Every time he steps outside the office, the Elites working Security take every opportunity to yell at him, shove him into a wall, knock him around. He's not sure if it's thanks to the Elite who had to carry him back from Kane’s office or some subtler directive from Kane himself, but either way it kinda sucks.

He ends up holing up in his cubicle even more than usual, getting all his meals from the break room, and when he does have to step out he goes with another tech or two. It doesn't actually keep Security off his back, but it's comforting to have someone there to pick him up when they've moved on.

The other techs are less than thrilled that he's getting singled out, but there's nothing they can do. Anton swears under his breath a lot. Ben just looks grim.

So Chuck stays in his cube, and gets work done, and finds himself thinking about Mike more often than he has in years. As far as he can remember, anyway--if they were boyfriends, then obviously he spent plenty of time on that. Probably way less time wondering, though. Not just about what Mike looks like now, or what the sex was like, but how they started dating in the first place, how long they were together, if they started before Mike went rogue or after he came back--so many questions.

He knows it's not safe to wonder about things when he's on sick leave, and probably especially about a relationship with a rebellious ex-cadet, and he does his best to stop a line of thought before it gets into dangerous territory. It doesn't always work, but he only burns himself a few times, and mildly enough that no one else notices.

After three months go by, he takes note that the last time he got burned was a week back, and starts carefully testing himself every few days. He edges up on a dangerous thought cautiously, switching to primes or another distraction as soon as he feels a pang.

By the second week of testing he's not feeling anything. He purposely lets himself think about his blank spots, about how they got there, thinks the words _memory wipe_ \--nothing. Not even a faint twinge.

Tipping back his head, he calls to the office at large, “Thank _fuck_ , I think I'm off sick leave!”

“Shit, really?” comes Anton’s startled voice, along with a number of whoops and pleased swearing from a scattering of other cubes.

“All right, let's test this,” Ben says, coming around to Chuck’s door. “That all right?”

Chuck spreads his hands. “I mean, I already kinda did, but feel free.”

“Yeah, except you don't know what your triggers were,” Ben points out, stepping in.

Chuck shrugs provisional agreement. Ben leans down by him, and Chuck wasn't expecting him so close, but his face is absolutely serious, this isn't some prank. Okay, so he thinks Chuck’s triggers might be triggers for other people too, or they're just not safe to say out loud.

“They wiped your memory,” he says very softly, and Chuck stiffens up instinctively even as he rolls his eyes.

He relaxes with an effort. “Tried that one already.”

“Mike Chilton,” Ben says even more quietly, “leads a group called the Burners.”

Chuck doesn't even tense this time, just frowns. How the hell does Ben know what Mike’s up to right now? Or did he mean before Mike got caught? “Okay. Weird name, but whatever,” he says, and his eyes widen as Ben sags all over, letting out a long breath. “Uh. You okay, dude?”

“It's legit, he's good,” Ben says, straightening up and raising his voice. “Hang on, I'll--” He puts up a screen, types a line of text and sends it.

A second later it pops up in front of Chuck, an office-wide message saying _Who wants in on telling him?_

“Telling me what?” he says, staring suspiciously at Ben.

“Hang on,” Ben says absently, as ping after ping makes his screen flash brighter. A moment later he snorts. “Guys, _no_ ,” he says loudly. “We're not getting half the office in here, that's nuts. Fine, I'll pick.”

There’s a widespread grumble, but besides some swearing no one argues with whatever the result is. A minute later Raoul shows up, smiling wry and one-sided, followed by a pleased Anton and Rich, who’s grinning madly and bouncing on the balls of his toes.

Chuck looks around at the four of them, frowning and unnerved. This is not the typical reaction to someone getting off sick leave. General celebration and cheer, yes. Not… whatever this is.

“You left yourself a second backup file, for once you were off sick leave,” Ben says, “using different encryption, apparently. I'll give it to you, but I'm pretty sure it'll be way more fun to just tell you what's probably in it. Especially since everyone's been discussing it to death for months now.”

Chuck eyes him narrowly, then nods.

“Okay!” Rich says excitedly, ignoring Ben’s snort and Raoul’s eyeroll. “Okay, so here's the thing. You were gone for two and a half years, okay, you just fucking vanished, and it could've been transfer to a classified project, a fucking detention cell somewhere, or ground floor! No one knew, there was all kinds of speculation! But then you came back with a bunch of scars and those badass reflexes and, y’know, that locked-down plasma weapon in your arm, and we figured ground floor or maybe some kind of supersoldier training--”

“ _What!?_ ” Chuck yelps.

Rich just grins and keeps going. “--but _then_ Mike Chilton came to see you and we figured it out!” He glances around and Anton shrugs and picks it up.

“It _was_ ground floor, but you were with him. You weren't just a runaway, you were a fucking _rebel fighter_ with the Burners,” he finishes, grinning at Chuck.

Chuck stares around at them, looking for a sign, someone hiding a smirk, something to show that this is the prank it has to be. Anton isn't actually much for pranks, though, and Raoul and Ben wouldn't _both_ be here for that.

“Come on, guys,” he tries, “that's crazy! The thing about me being a badass is a _joke_ , that's not--I'm not like that! I was never like Mike!”

Ben shrugs. “Guess you're closer than you thought.”

Chuck shakes his head, wordless.

As Rich and Anton start trying to persuade him, run him through the logic, Raoul frowns to himself, flicks up a screen and starts typing. A moment later he sends the screen across to Chuck.

“Wha--” Chuck starts, and goes mute, staring.

WANTED, the poster on the screen says, under a picture of a really nasty looking blond guy. He's snarling, holding a massive, illegal-looking laser gun, and his face is half hidden under overgrown hair. He seems to have fangs, his skin is ravaged by acne or possibly some kind of skin disease, and he looks lethal in a poisonous kind of way.

...He's got a _lot_ of hair. Chuck should be looking for proof that this criminal absolutely couldn't be him, but he's distracted by all that hair, almost shoulder length. The kind of length you could easily grow if you spent a couple of years somewhere there was no risk of fevers.

Swallowing, he looks up. “That looks nothing like me,” he points out.

“Obviously it's a caricature,” Raoul says, “unflattering and not very skilled. I mean, there's a reason none of us recognized it in the first place.”

“Not exactly a great resemblance,” Ben says, squinting back and forth from the image on the screen to Chuck. “But there is a little. Look at the chin, and the neck.”

Chuck glares at him and then at the snarling face. Ben is right, but Chuck’s not about to say so out loud.

“There was more than one, wasn't there?” Anton asks, pulling up a screen of his own.

“Could be,” Raoul says, shrugging, and Rich starts typing a search too, competitive.

“Hah!” Anton says a minute later. “Oh my god. Well, um, still not flattering, but in a different way.” He selects the image and expands his screen so Chuck can see clearly.

The guy on this poster looks just as unfriendly as the first one, but instead of the lean and fanged look he's pudgy and sullen. His blond hair is just as long, and the round cheeks are spattered with familiar freckles.

Before he can get it together to say anything in response, Rich makes a triumphant noise, then bursts into laughter. “Holy shit,” he snickers, expanding his screen. “Guys.”

Chuck’s mouth drops open as the others start laughing too. The face in the new poster is closer to his, except that one eye seems to be shooting laser bolts. The blond hair is blowing in the wind, there are more muscles on display than Chuck has ever had in his life, and--

“How do you shoot three guns at once?” Anton says, grinning at Chuck.

“I don't know,” Chuck says, glaring at him, “since I've never even held one!”

“Artist went a little over the top with the extra muscle,” Ben says blandly.

“A little?” Chuck says, gaping at him.

“Well, you do have more than most of us,” Ben says. “Obviously.”

“How is that _obvious_ , I'm a skinny twig!”

“Who needs more exercise than anyone else in the department,” Ben says. “Muscle wants maintenance, you know. Or are you saying I didn't see you doing sit-ups when I walked by your cube the other night?”

Chuck’s face heats as he scrambles for a rejoinder and comes up empty. He _was_ , is the thing, because it felt _good_. He’s been trying not to let anyone see, but he gets so antsy sometimes that the only thing that helps is to let his body flex and work and move like it apparently wants to. Dumb fitness exercises feel great now, it's really weird.

“Is _that_ why he's always pacing around the office!” Anton says. “I didn't _think_ I remembered you being so restless, man.”

“I'm--that's not--guys, focus! Do you really expect me to believe that these--” he waves a hand at the three screens, each showing a poster, “--are supposed to be me?”

Ben rolls his eyes. Rich frowns and Anton says reproachfully, “Chuck, seriously?”

Raoul just raises his eyebrows. “You expect us to believe it's _not?_ ”

Chuck stares at him, around at the other three, then helplessly at the posters again, and groans. “I must've been the most useless rebel ever!” he says, throwing up his hands. “Mike probably took me on out of pity!”

“Doubt it,” Ben says shortly as Rich says, “Aw, no way, man!”

Raoul sends him a quick text, _raise silencer_. Chuck lets out a sigh and turns on the noise blocker without asking why, which would kind of defeat the purpose.

“Either way, you were one,” Raoul says. “You taken a moment to think about that yet?”

Chuck frowns at him. Then his eyes go wide as ice wraps around his gut and squeezes. “Oh my fuck,” he says in a thin voice.

Kane. Chuck was wiped in the first place because he rebelled with Mike. Instead of simply killing him as a traitor, Kane erased a chunk of Chuck’s life so he could put him back to work for Kane Co, eking out every last drop of use from his substantial skills… so long as he keeps behaving like a good little employee.

If Kane finds out Chuck knows now, he'll probably skip wiping him again and just kill him. And now that Chuck knows, it's going to be hard to keep acting normal.

“I'm lucky he didn't kill me in the first place,” he says numbly.

“Well,” Anton says, scuffing one shoe on the floor. “Sort of. Um. Wasn't really luck, I don't think.” He glances at the others. “It seems like he was using you against Chilton. Um. Kind of a hostage situation.”

“Never mind, not important,” Raoul breaks in. “The point is, you're not safe here, and now that you're healed, you can leave. You need to get down to ground floor. We'll help you, but you have to go.”

Chuck just stares at him. Because on the one hand, yeah, Chuck is obviously in danger now, that's undeniable. On the other…

“You want _me_ ,” he says faintly, “to go down to Motorcity. Where there's gangs and crazy people and I'll probably get knifed inside of a minute.”

“Except you definitely won't,” Ben says, rolling his eyes, “because your boyfriend’s waiting and he'll take care of you.”

“And the other Burners, man,” Rich says. “They must have been your friends too, they're probably gonna be really happy to have you back.”

“Look at it this way,” Raoul says quietly. “You were living down there for like two years, even if you don't remember it now. You're not going to be _leaving_ your home; you'll be going back to it.”

*

Chuck will leave in four days, in the middle of the night. Raoul drills him on the path to take to the edge of Deluxe, runs him through the timing, and starts doing the hacking necessary to ensure his escape route.

Two days before time, Raoul comes skidding into Chuck’s cubicle, wide-eyed and breathing hard, and grabs his shoulder. “Come with me,” he says, quick and low. “Sorry, man, I fucked up, we gotta go _now_.”

Chuck stares at him, heart doing a weird stutter-step before it starts speeding up. “Dude, it's the middle of the _day_ , we can't--”

“Argue with me while we're moving,” Raoul snaps, hauling on his arm, and Chuck stumbles out of his chair in self-defense.

Raoul tugs him out of his cube and towards the office door. “He was in my system and I didn't notice until too late, he saw what I was up to--”

“Who did?”

“Kane!”

Chuck stumbles, gasps in a breath as Raoul shoves him out the door. “We're so dead.”

“Not yet we're not,” Raoul snarls, and drags Chuck down the hall and into an elevator.

“Wait, shit, I didn't--I didn't say goodbye to anybody, I wanted to--Rich is gonna flip out and Ben--”

“They'll know,” Raoul says, flicking up a screen and starting to type as the elevator moves smoothly down. “I sent a message to Anton that I was going downstairs with you to get a meal, he'll tell everyone. Now can you please--oh, never mind, I got it.”

A private alert pops up in front of Chuck that he's never seen before. _Intrusion registered_. “What the fuck? Dude, are you _hacking_ me?” he says, outraged.

“You have a plasma weapon in your arm,” Raoul mutters. “That seems like it could be useful right now if I can just--hah!”

 _Weapons lock disabled_ , says the new alert _. Weapon calibrating…_ Chuck sways as a weird dizziness sweeps over him, then fades just as fast. He glares at Raoul. “Would it hurt you to fucking _ask_ first?”

“Look, I'm sorry! I'm not exactly at my best, here!” Raoul glares at his screen, still typing. “I wasn't actually planning to change floors at all, much less right now this instant!”

“Yeah, and about that, have you noticed it's broad daylight outside? There's nowhere to _hide_ , Raoul, they're just going to catch us and throw us in detention cells!”

“Better than sitting on our asses waiting for the Elites to arrive! Not like the results would be any different, and this way at least we've got a chance.”

Another alert pops up: _Weapon online_. _Activate?_ and there's a sudden prickle and thrum in his left forearm, waiting.

“That ready?” Raoul says, glancing up. “Good, you should try it out, make sure you know how to use it.”

“Oh yeah! That sounds like a _great_ plan! Try out a plasma weapon you don't know how to use in an enclosed metal box that's the only thing holding you up hundreds of feet in the air, absolutely! I mean I can only think of four or five ways that could go horribly wrong, it's pretty much foolproof!”

“Well since the alternative is-- _shit_ ,” Raoul says as the elevator slows and stops. He pushes Chuck up against the wall just inside the doors and jabs a thumb against the ‘Door Close’ button. The doors ignore this and smoothly pull open. Chuck squeezes into the corner, hoping it's just some clueless worker on the way to a late lunch--

Raoul freezes.

“Get out here,” says a voice in a familiar tone of mixed boredom and annoyance. Elite, and probably more than one. “You're not going anywhere, there's a stop on all the elevators. Where's the other one?”

Raoul’s eyes stay wide and fixed on the Elite speaking, not even flickering towards Chuck. His hands are held carefully out from his sides. “I--I don't know? If it's another tech, he's probably in his cubicle, I just wanted some lunch--”

“I said, get out here!”

Raoul swallows hard and steps backwards like he can't help cowering away, presses himself against the back wall of the elevator. Chuck is staring at him, horrified and bewildered, when he hears a snort and a curse from outside in two different voices and suddenly gets it.

“Fucking--fine, I'll get you out,” growls the first Elite, and Chuck triggers the activation on the weapon in his arm, whips it up and shoots the soldier in the neck as he steps through the door. There’s a blue-white flash and the Elite slumps to the floor, twitching. Raoul yelps and dives to the other side as there's a shout and shots crack against the back wall of the elevator. Chuck drops to his knees under the line of fire, leans out and sends a bolt of plasma at the second Elite, who crumples.

Chuck is kneeling there, slingshot drawn, looking for the next target when Raoul stumbles forward and tugs at his shoulder. “Come on, stairs, we gotta move!”

Chuck climbs to his feet, heart thundering in his ears, and runs after Raoul. His weapon is a _slingshot_ , not a gun, that is _so_ much less cool. Probably safer, though.

They open the door to the stairwell and Raoul catches Chuck by the arm, listening. Distant sounds echo down from many floors up but none closer, and Raoul nods and goes tearing down the stairs with Chuck right behind him. They're still way too far above ground level for Chuck’s liking, and he hopes his legs don't give out before they get there--although he's probably going to get shot sooner or later anyway.

“That was fucking amazing,” Raoul pants. “You took two Elites down like it was nothing, _fuck!_ ”

He did, he totally fucking did, holy shit. “I wouldn't say like it was _nothing_ ,” Chuck says through the startled grin spreading over his face.

“Yeah, you weren't watching you! Two seconds, two Elites on the floor, man, you had that shit down _cold_.” Raoul swings around the corner, hair flying, and goes pounding down the next flight, Chuck a couple steps above him. “I mean I know you're a badass rebel and everything, but I didn't expect to _see_ it!”

Chuck ducks his head, grinning like an idiot. “I'm probably pretty tame compared to anybody else.” He jumps the last three steps, gasps for breath and starts down another flight. “Shit, Mike probably makes me look like a wimp without even trying.”

“Yeah, well, you can't compare yourself to Mike fucking Chilton, that's just--” Raoul cuts off as a door slams open a few flights down, gruff voices spilling out. Another door opens farther down, and another above, more and more voices echoing through the stairwell.

“Shit,” Raoul hisses, and pulls Chuck back from the railing. “Back up and out here,” he says, and they skitter back to the landing they just crossed and through the door, Chuck’s arm fizzing with readiness to assemble his slingshot. There's no one waiting for them, though, just quiet corridors and the murmur of voices through open office doors as they jog past.

“Why the fuck does he have so many Elites out after us?” Chuck mutters. “That had to be like three full squads! We're just a couple of techs, we're not that important!”

“I'm not,” Raoul says, just as low, “but you're his leverage against Mike. We've got to get you safe, he'll--he can't get you back, it'd be… not good.”

“Thanks, dude,” Chuck says, rolling his eyes, “I was really confused about what my life might be worth if I get caught. Great to have that cleared up.”

“Save your fucking breath,” Raoul grumbles, and shoulders open the door to the mid-floor stairwell. Then they're running down the stairs again, trying not to stumble or trip despite being breathless and tired, Raoul grabbing for the railing every time his foot slips. Chuck’s muscles burn satisfyingly with the use, his steps as sure as if he ran for his life on a daily basis. Raoul missteps and skids down three stairs before catching himself on the railing.

“Fuck,” he says, gasping for breath.

“I'd rather slow down than have you break your neck!” Chuck says, catching his shoulder to steady him.

“Yeah, well, I'd rather get caught and wiped than get you killed!” Raoul snaps, grabs the railing and starts jumping stairs two and three at a time.

Chuck swears and keeps up.

A door above them opens and Raoul lurches away from the railing and the open well, slowing down cautiously.

“TECHNICIANS 13865 AND 11873,” a thundering voice says, “YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. STAND STILL AND DO NOT RESIST--”

Even through the demands echoing off the walls, Chuck can hear the pounding of feet on the stairs. Raoul and he hit the next landing at the same time and Chuck stops, bringing up his slingshot. The repeated demand for surrender drowns out whatever Raoul is saying, but Chuck can read _Are you crazy?!_ on his face just as easily. Adjusting the power output all the way up, Chuck elbows him toward the next flight, but he grabs Chuck’s arm and tries to pull him with. Chuck doesn't move. He aims and fires as the first Elite crosses the landing, but the guy ducks the blast--then gets flung to one side as part of the wall behind him _explodes_.

Chuck stares at the hole for a split second, then turns his slingshot on the underside of the stairs above the flight he just came down. One shot collapses half of it onto the stairs in a mass of concrete chunks and twisted, creaking metal. It's incredibly loud, enough to briefly drown out the jerk with the megaphone, and Raoul drags Chuck off the landing as debris tumbles down. The stairs behind them are almost completely blocked.

The air is full of dust as the two of them get down the next flight. Chuck thinks he might be in shock, weirdly buzzing and numb at the same time. The guy with the megaphone has moved on to listing charges against them, somewhat muffled now, but Chuck is too distracted to listen.

“Holy shit, man, holy _shit_ ,” Raoul keeps muttering, and Chuck absolutely agrees, but if he tries to say so he's going to end up screaming a lot.

 _Not_ safer than a gun, apparently. Why the _fuck_ does the power range of his slingshot top out around ‘demolitions grade explosions’? The thing is stored in his _arm_ , who thought that was a good idea?!

They're three floors from the bottom when the door on the landing right in front of them slams open. Chuck has his slingshot up as the first Elite plunges through, but the shot only knocks the Elite back into the guys following him. Shit, the power slid back down to baseline. Chuck gets off another couple of shots, then dives across the landing with Raoul right behind him. Someone's shooting at them, but so far he's missing in the confusion. Another second and there are boots on the stairs behind them and more shooting.

Raoul yells and stumbles and Chuck has to catch him before he falls down the last few stairs. The Elites are closing fast and Raoul is moaning in pain. A burning line streaks across the top of Chuck’s shoulder as he hauls Raoul across the landing and through the second floor door.

They have roughly three seconds before the whole squad comes piling through the door after them, and there's nowhere to run. Chuck pulls up his slingshot again, dials the power up, and blasts the floor right in front of the door.

As the floor under him gives way, he realizes he miscalculated the blast radius, and then they're falling in a cloud of dust and rubble.

When he hits, Chuck instantly curls forward, the world spinning as he rolls and comes up on his feet, pure muscle memory because he has no idea how he did that. Raoul is swearing nearby, lying on the floor, and there are startled faces staring at them and--guns. Lots of guns.

Ah. That's at least a full squad of Elites spreading out in a semicircle in front of them as the workers scatter and press back against the walls of the ground floor lobby. Chuck’s hands drift cautiously out from his sides because even if he could get a shot off before getting shot himself thirty or so times, at the distance they're keeping from each other he could only take out three or so, even with max power.

“Jenkins, cuff them,” says one of the Elites, and another steps forward, pulling a set of handcuffs from his belt.

Right. Well. It's not like Chuck expected this to end well in the first place. There was never any chance they were actually going to escape, Kane has too many resources and they have too few and _they made it so far_ , it's so dumb that it still ends like this!

“Wrists,” the Elite says curtly to Chuck, stopping in front of him.

Chuck hesitates. The Elite backhands him and Raoul swears softly as Chuck staggers.

The far wall explodes. The Elites whirl, turning their guns on the newest threat, a sleek red and black machine roaring as it careens across the floor of the lobby toward them, followed by a green one. The guns seem to have no effect, and the black thing cannons into the line of Elites, throwing them aside like dolls.

“Hey nerd!” a deep voice yells out the window, “Want a ride?”

Holy shit, there's a guy piloting that thing! That--automotive vehicle, that _car_.

“Burners,” Raoul gasps. “Guess they got my message.”

“You don't think,” Chuck says through his teeth, helping him up, “you could've mentioned before now that you sent a message for backup?”

“Sorry, didn't think it made it through--”

“Chuck! You guys getting in or what?” The green car screeches to a halt beside them, way too close, and Chuck stares through the open window at a wide, familiar grin.

“Mike,” he says, suddenly breathless, and then catches up. “Uh. Do we have to?” Those things move really fast and they do not look safe and--

“Come on, man, it's better than running,” Raoul says.

“The Texas train’s about to pull out!” comes a yell, and the black car stops on their other side. “I'll take the old nerd!”

“Hey! Just because I'm over twenty-five,” Raoul says, trying to stand up on his own, and Chuck catches him again as he almost falls.

“Oh, fucking-- _fine_ ,” Chuck says, and manhandles Raoul into the black car. “Take care of him, he's hurt!” he tells the broad guy in the driver's seat, and ignores Raoul’s “So are you!”

Climbing into the green car, Chuck slams the door. They're moving again before he's even settled in the seat, wheeling around and tearing back towards the hole in the wall as Chuck scrabbles to get the safety belts fastened. He's trying not to see everything swerving and blurring with speed around them as the car gets out into the sunlight and starts going faster. Now seems like a dumb time to start screaming, and if Chuck looks up that's definitely going to happen.

“Hey, guys!” Mike says, as several colorful comms screens pop up. “Time to go, we got him!”

“Good,” says a girl’s voice. “Mike, you take point this time, yeah? Dutch will follow you, and Texas and I will keep them off your tail.”

“Jules, you gotta be careful, they're gunning for you just as much--”

“I know, Mike, I've got this!”

“Okay,” Mike says. “Let's go, guys!”

“Chuck, when we get home, I'm hugging you so hard,” says the girl, and another voice chimes in, “Heck yeah, hugs all around. You know Jacob’s gonna have made something special, hope your stomach’s ready.”

Mike glances sideways at Chuck’s bewildered face and laughs. “Come on, guys, mind on the mission, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” someone says, and the screens blink out.

“The weapons systems are all set up for you still,” Mike says, swerving sharply to dodge a turret’s fire. “If, uh, if you remember how to--”

The screens come up on Chuck’s first try, and it only takes him a second to figure out how to aim. Which is fortunate, because while they're past that turret, there are more up ahead, and a moment later the girl's voice says tightly, “Kanebots coming! Surprised it took them this long.”

Chuck targets and fires and targets and fires some more. The guns are good, it only takes one shot to bring down a bot, although the turrets take a more concentrated effort. As long as Chuck is focused on shooting things before they can shoot him, he's distracted from his terror.

When they're past the turrets, swarms of Kanebots are still trailing them, but the other cars are taking them down too, and it takes a surprisingly short time before the last of them drops out of the sky, a smoking lump of melted polymers.

“How we doing back there, Jules?” Mike says.

“Seems clear,” she answers.

“Awesome,” Mike says, grinning. “Good work, you guys.”

Clear. It's clear, they're safe. Chuck’s hands are shaking. He dismisses the weapons control screens and tucks his hands under his thighs, but his breathing is getting tight and fast now. God, this is so dumb, he waits until the danger is over and _then_ flips out, Mike’s going to be so disappointed he's not the badass he’s supposed to be.

“Hey, the old nerd’s all bandaged up,” says the deep voice, “so he's not bleedin’ on Texas’s car, but he says Chuck got shot too. Are you takin’ care of that, Tiny?”

“What?! Chuck!” Mike says, glancing over at him wide-eyed. “Dude, why didn't you say anything!”

He goes on talking, but Chuck can't take it in right now, it's just noise, encryption he can't hack even though he should be able to. Raoul is bleeding, he's hurt and it's Chuck’s fault, he's been forced down to Motorcity, he might never speak to Chuck again. Now that it's been called back to mind, the top of Chuck’s shoulder burns and throbs with every quick, shallow breath, and the pain just makes it worse. He's hurt and Raoul’s hurt and they barely made it out of the Tower alive and Chuck has no idea what happens now, how they'll live, and he can't think, can't answer questions, just wraps his arms around himself, clinging as he fractures apart.

He jumps when a hand lands on his good shoulder, jerks his head up wildly because that can't be safe at this speed, Mike needs both hands on the wheel--except nothing’s moving around them, the overpowering roar of the engine has quieted to a rumble. They've stopped.

Why, is Mike kicking him out now, what's going on? Chuck hunches into himself, clutching his elbows and panting.

“ _God_ , buddy--okay, can't be brain burn, that looks different--shhh, Chuckles, breathe, slow down, dude, it's okay.” Mike’s hand slides over and rubs between his shoulder blades and he keeps talking, voice low and soothing. It's really nice, and totally bewildering. As far as Chuck remembers, the few times he had a panic attack around Mike, he just kind of ignored it and waited until Chuck was done. Now he's acting almost like a tech, like somebody used to helping with this.

After a minute Mike goes, “Wait, I'm supposed to count--not breaths, that wasn't it. Length of breaths! To help you slow down, right?”

Already breathing less rapidly than he was, Chuck stares. How the hell does Mike know that?

“You don't h-have to,” he manages. “‘m fine.”

“I know,” Mike says, “but I want to help. So let me try, okay?”

Appearances aside, he's obviously not experienced at this, because he has no idea how to time breaths, but Chuck just listens to the concern in his voice and slowly his breathing settles. Finally he takes a deep breath and winces as his shoulder throbs with pain.

“Ahh--fuck.”

“You okay? Let me see.”

Chuck holds the safety strap away from his injured shoulder and twists around to show Mike, trying to keep breathing slow and deep. Mike leans over, hissing a little in sympathy as he tugs at Chuck’s shirt to get a clear view.

“Okay, that looks like it hurts a lot, but you're not bleeding much, so we're probably better off getting you to Jacob instead of trying to take care of it here. The first aid kit’s under your seat, it's got pain pills in it. Why don't you grab a couple.”

“‘Kay,” Chuck says, stalled out for a minute watching Mike at this close range. Now he knows what he meant in the note he left himself--Mike is a lot hotter than Chuck remembers. Broad shoulders, gentle hands. His face is sharply cut now, all cheekbones and jaw and concerned dark eyes. Bruised looking spots under those eyes, like he hasn't slept well in a long time.

The yellow comms screen pops up as Chuck fishes out the first aid kit. “Mike?” says the girl’s voice--Jules, Mike calls her. ...So, that has to be _Julie Kane_ , god, the terrifying strategist that caught Deluxe off-guard with her rebellion and almost deposed Kane before he struck back--Chuck freezes for a second, realizing. She wants to _hug_ him. They were friends. Holy shit. He grabs two pills and swallows them, puts the first aid kit away again.

“--yeah, we're good,” Mike is saying, sitting back in the driver's seat. “Heading back now, thanks for keeping watch.”

“No problem, glad Chuck’s not hurt too bad. Texas got back already, by the way, so Chuck’s friend is going to be fine.”

Chuck lets out a breath and sags, closing his eyes in relief.

“That's good,” Mike says, and starts the car moving again. “We kind of owe the guy a lot.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, “we do.”

“You mean for getting me out?” Chuck says cautiously, trying not to look any farther than the dashboard as they move faster and faster.

“For getting you out,” she answers, “for getting Mike out, for keeping us up to date so we knew Kane was sticking to the deal--”

“You made a deal with Kane?” Chuck breaks in, bewildered.

Mike makes a little sound and Chuck looks over to see him tight-lipped, hands twitching on the wheel.

“...Yeah,” Kane’s daughter says. “You were there, in his office. You don't remember?”

“I mean,” Chuck says, “no, but that doesn't exactly make it a unique event, you know.”

“That last burn,” Mike says in a low voice, “you must have blanked out some of what had just happened. You did it before, when I was visiting.”

“Oh,” Chuck says. Oh god, that time in Kane’s office when he woke up on the floor. He'd rather not think about either Kane or managing to burn himself so bad he self-wiped in front of Mike, because _damn_ that must have been embarrassing. “Okay. So, um, why make a deal with the guy you're fighting?”

“Because I didn't feel like watching him torture you!” she snaps, and there's a ringing pause.

“He was sending it to us, live,” Mike says. His voice is uneven.

Chuck is frozen for a second, caught between a hot surge of shame and humiliation over how pathetic he must have looked, and a clashing wave of empathy for Mike, watching that. He reaches out uncertainly to put a hand on Mike's shoulder.

Mike takes his eyes off the road to shoot Chuck a startled, grateful look and looks back ahead in time to whip the car around a sharp curve. Chuck’s hand clenches on the leather of Mike’s jacket as the force of the turn pushes him against the safety belts. He reminds himself that screaming is not an option.

Mike blows out a breath. “So Julie called him up and threatened him to get him to quit.”

“I'm still amazed it worked,” Julie says.

“I'm not. You sounded pretty convincing, Jules!”

“Well, anyway,” she goes on, “I got in touch with Raoul and explained the situation and he kept me informed, since Kane sure wasn't about to tell us if he changed his mind. So not only did Raoul get both of you out, he helped keep Mike from losing it in the meantime.”

“Oh, come on,” Mike protests. “I wasn't--”

“Don't even start, cowboy, I was there. You were barely keeping it together _with_ his reports, if all you had was that goddamned vid and silence, I don't even want to think about it.”

Mike huffs and glances sideways at Chuck, who's staring at him, poleaxed. “Whatever, Jules. Look, I'll see you when we get there, okay?” he says, and turns off the comms as she snorts. “Don't pay any attention to Jules, I was fine.”

He was so worried about Chuck his friends were scared for him. Holy shit. Chuck tightens the hand still on Mike’s shoulder. “Yeah, okay, Mikey,” he says quietly.

Mike swallows. “I really missed you.”

Chuck bites his lip. He can't exactly say the same, he hasn't been _missing_ Mike so much as curious about him and their relationship and what he's like now. It feels wrong to say nothing, though. “Sorry, bro.”

“‘S okay, you're here now.” Mike smiles at him, crooked and warm, looking away from the road a little too long for Chuck’s comfort. “And god, you're being so brave, dude. You're amazing.”

“I--” Everything stalls out in Chuck’s brain. His hand drops from Mike’s shoulder, his arms pulling in instinctively. “I'm. What?”

Mike blinks, frowning ahead of them. “I said, you're being really brave.”

“I heard what you _said_ , Mike.” On the one hand, it's Mike, who’s never been the cruel type, and who sounds completely earnest. On the other--“Dude, you just had to talk me through a panic attack. I'm like, the least brave person you've probably talked to today.”

“Uh, no, that's totally not true. Come on, Chuckles, I mean, you've just escaped from Deluxe, you were surrounded by guys with guns, you're in a car you don't remember, you… don't even remember _me_ that well. And you're just--dealing with it, taking it all in stride. Geez, you just helped gun down a bunch of Kanebots, and it's not like you know you've done it before!”

“Yeah, and I was terrified the whole time! That doesn't make me brave.”

“Yeah it does! You're doing stuff you don't even remember, and you're doing it just as well as you always have, even though you're scared. That's seriously impressive.”

The look Mike keeps giving him is making Chuck uncomfortable. It seems almost admiring, which is just really wrong. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, looking down at his hands, “it doesn't look impressive to me.”

Mike lets out a laugh that tapers into a sigh. “It never does, buddy. You could do the bravest, most heroic stuff without ever admitting it.”

“That's for a good reason!” Chuck says, head jerking up in alarm. “Which is that I'm not the heroic type, like, at all! And this is gonna go really badly if you expect me to be a hero like you! I'm not like that, I don't know how to do that, okay?”

Mike chews on his lip for a moment before he glances over again. “You don't have to be like me,” he says quietly. “You never did. You can do stuff I can't do, and we need that. You're our genius, you hack and program and navigate and design.” He gets a sliver of a smile, eyes back on the road. “You're my copilot. And… you don't have to worry about making a place for yourself or fitting in with the rest of us, you already do. You never stopped being a Burner.”

Oh. Chuck was a rebel _hacker_ , oh! That makes a lot more sense than any kind of serious fighter, plasma weapon and weird defensive reflexes very much aside. Chuck’s shoulders lose some of their tense hunch as he considers the prospect of a job that actually requires the skill set he has, instead of one that seems both terrifying and unlearnable. He's not even going to argue with the ‘never stopped’ statement, even though he's pretty sure he was not being a Burner while he was hanging out in a cubicle coding for Kane Co.

Instead, he changes the subject. “So, smashing a hole in the side of Kane Co Tower. Was that your idea, Mikey?”

Mike grins. “Do I get yelled at more if I say yes or no?”

“Both! You're the leader, right? So any plans were approved by you! And that was _crazy_ , dude, you had no idea if we were anywhere close, no clue what the situation was like inside--hell, we could have been captured and taken back upstairs already! Not to mention that _driving_ a _car_ through the _wall_ , Mike? _Really?!”_

Mike is _laughing_ at him, the fucker. Chuck is getting ready to renew his scolding when he realizes the laughter sounds a little wobbly.

Mike takes a breath and shakes his head, still smiling. “It's good to have you yelling at me again,” he says, and his voice hitches, just a tiny catch, one Chuck might have missed if he wasn't paying attention.

Chuck swallows. “Obviously you guys need me, since apparently none of you have any common sense,” he grumbles.

“Pretty sure Julie and Dutch do okay with the common sense,” Mike says, and the roar of the engine quiets some. Chuck dares a glance out the windshield to see that they're only moving ridiculously fast now instead of insanely, lethally fast, and quickly looks down at his hands again instead of doing something as uncool and unrebel-like as squeaking _holy shit, slow down!_

“Julie sure did good leading while I was on vacation up there, anyway,” Mike goes on. “We've been doing this co-leader thing since I got back. I think it's working pretty good. But you're still right. We definitely need you.” He throws Chuck a sideways smile. “The guys are gonna be really happy to see you, dude.”

Yeah, Chuck knows, he's been threatened with multiple hugs already. Taking a deep breath, he tries to decide if it'd be better to deal with getting hugged by a bunch of people who are strangers to him, or have them realize from the way he acts and talks and everything that he's not the person they remember anymore. Weird as it'd be, he kind of thinks he'd prefer the hugs to the cold shoulder, but he can't decide which outcome is more likely.

“And now’s their chance,” Mike says, as they slow down further to go through a gate with a monstrous toothy face painted on it. “Here we are, we're home.”

The car stops, the engine goes silent. Mike claps Chuck on the shoulder, grinning, then pauses, eyes going concerned. “Buddy? You okay?”

“Fine,” Chuck squeaks, fumbling his way out of the safety belts. His injured shoulder aches dully, and he tries to use the other hand as much as he can. His heart is pounding, but it's not like putting this off will make it any easier. He shoves the door open and gets out of the car.

“Hey!” bellows a voice, and Chuck jumps violently and spins to see the guy from the black and red car swaggering towards him. “Nice shootin’, little guy! Now, was Texas awesome, or was Texas _super mega_ awesome?” He punches the air, slaps Chuck on the back hard enough to stagger him, and goes over to grab Mike by the shoulder. “Great mission, Tiny! You and Molly did good on this one!”

“Haha, thanks, Tex,” Mike says, grinning affectionately at the guy. “I mean, not that we can take that much credit, but it sure worked out great.” Chuck is busy marveling over being called _little guy_ by a dude considerably shorter than him, although it's weirdly cute.

“Chuck! Hey, man!”

Chuck looks over to see a tall guy with a really nice fro and an even nicer smile coming over.

“Dang, it's so good to see you in person,” the guy says, stopping in front of him, eyes flickering over his face. Chuck smiles cautiously back.

“Oh, right!” Mike says suddenly. “Chuck, this is Texas, that's Dutch--”

“And I'm Julie,” says a red-headed girl, stepping up beside Texas, and then all four of them are looking at him, pleased and hopeful--

\--And the thing is, he doesn't know them, doesn't remember them at all, as far as he can tell, that's true. But without knowing anything about them beyond the way they look and the sound of their voices, he already likes them a lot more than makes sense. It's not memory, nothing as clear as that. More like warmth and trust and closeness at some instinctive level, much deeper than rational judgment. And it's not just because they're hot, although, god, they all are, Mike’s not the only ridiculously attractive person here. They look _friendly_ , and trustworthy, and kind--okay, except for the short guy, Texas, who looks like a jerk. But possibly a crust of jerk with the other stuff underneath.

They're obviously really cool people, is all, and Chuck really wants them to like him, and they're smiling at him like they already do, and he has no idea what his feelings are doing. His face is warm. He smiles back at all of them, shy and stupid, and raises a hand in a cautious wave.

“H-hi.”

Julie’s eyes are bright as she grins back. “Hey. I know I said earlier--I realized that it might be weird for you to get hugged, since you don't actually remember us--”

“It's okay,” Chuck blurted out.

Julie blinks. “Are you su--”

“Awesome!” Texas says, plunges forward, wraps his arms hard around Chuck’s middle, and squeezes. Chuck squeaks as the air goes out of him. Texas is extremely solid and warm, and Chuck is trying to ignore the feeling that he could outline the guy's chest muscles by the press of them against him right now.

“Well, in that case,” Julie says, as Texas’s grip loosens enough to breathe, and she and the tall guy, Dutch, step up. Dutch just stands behind Texas and wraps his arms around Texas and Chuck at the same time, while Julie slips in at Chuck’s side. Dutch’s hands are big and gentle, Julie’s are cool and hold Chuck firmly. Chuck’s hands hover uncertainly before one lands on Julie’s back and the other on Dutch’s shoulder.

“Yeah, hug pile!” Texas says. “Come on, Tiny, get on it!”

Chuck looks past Dutch to see Mike smile and move forward.

“You sure this is okay?” Mike says quietly, putting a hand on Chuck’s back. “You look okay, but this has to be kinda weird--”

“No, it--it's okay,” Chuck says again, and bites his lip. “It's nice.” Nice doesn't really cover it, but he can't say out loud that it feels warm and close and cared for. He feels _safe_. It's like, on that level deeper than conscious thought or memory, some part of him knows these people, knows he can relax now. It's like being back in his cubicle, playing some game with Anton and Rich in the middle of the night, except there's not even the faintest chance of an Elite walking in.

“Yeah?” Mike’s face brightens, his worried smile changing to a delighted grin. “Awesome!” he says, and wraps his arms as far around Chuck and Julie and Dutch as they'll reach.

“Oof!” says Julie, and laughs, and Texas says, “Yeah, Burners give the _best_ hugs!” and squeezes Chuck again so he makes a croaking noise. His shoulder gives a resentful throb at all the jostling. Dutch snorts and squeezes Texas, who makes an indignant sound and lets go of Chuck, trying to wriggle around in the tight press of the group to get his revenge.

“Hey, Chuck,” Dutch says, “welcome back, man,” and he breaks away and takes off around the other side of Mike’s car, pursued by Texas.

Julie snorts, then stiffens and says, “Wait a second, Raoul said you're hurt! We need to get you to Jacob.” She steps back and tips her head at Chuck to follow, then leads off towards some stairs.

Mike drapes an arm over Chuck’s good shoulder and follows along. “Welcome home, dude. Hope you'll like it.”

Chuck glances at him, at the light in his tired eyes, the cheerful grin on strange yet familiar features, and smiles. “I think I already do.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _We don't have a choice to stay_  
>  _We'd rather die than do it your way_  
>  \- Ready Aim Fire by Imagine Dragons


End file.
